Ghosts of the Waikato

By Wayne Palmer

In the year 2065, the world has changed. After the fall of the United States Empire, the formation of the Australasian Alliance brought stability to the Asia-Pacific region, along with the powerful Greater Asian Republic. Intelligent technology has solved the dangers of climate change but not without consequences.

At the Waikato Institute of the Mentally Distressed on the small island state of Aotearoa, psychiatrist Janet Reilly helps those with the inability to adapt to this new paradigm of existence. These people are cared for and, once strong enough, released back into the wilds of this new world.

But something is amiss. Some of the Institutes guests have been deprived of their only remaining right - that of life. They are found alone in their rooms, dead without cause or explanation. The only link between them appears to be the way they died and the fact that no one seems to have noticed, or cared, about their passing - except for Janet. To her, its almost as if they have become ghosts in a world that has moved on.

Determined to uncover the reasons behind the suspicious deaths, Janet begins searching for answers, even if the truth might jeopardise her own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462066407

Wayne Palmer

Wayne Palmer’s family were early colonists in the Fiji Islands, arriving from Dublin, Ireland in the mid 1800s. Wayne grew up sailing around these tropical islands and soaked up the stories passed down through his ancestors of smuggling and cannibalism. His education finished in New Zealand. Wayne became a professional yachtsman and is currently the captain on a super yacht.

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Copyright © 2011 by Wayne Palmer.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-6639-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6641-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6640-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 11/19/2011

Contents

Waikato Institute for the Mentally Distressed Site Map

Chapter 01

RETURN TO THE SCENE OF THE WRONG

Chapter 02

ONWARDS AND UPWARDS?

Chapter 03

AKITU’S DILEMMA

Chapter 04

ONCE MORE TO DREAM

Chapter 05

INVESTIGATOR CAMPBELL I PRESUME?

Chapter 06

HERE BE GHOSTS

Chapter 07

IF THE ANSWER IS FRANCE WHAT IS THE QUESTION?

Chapter 08

STRIKE TWO AND YOU’RE OUT

Chapter 09

NIGHTMARE OF PINK

Chapter 10

TOO LATE SHE CRIED

Chapter 11

CAUGHT RED HANDED

Chapter 12

THEY STOOD BACK TO BACK AND FACED EACH OTHER

Chapter 13

THE END IS NIGH

Epilogue

Glossary

To C’rol

The stars are still shining

Waikato Institute for the Mentally Distressed Site Map

Updated: 14/07/62—update authority by M Te Huia—file location: CDIN:mgt/info/property/plan/

201110%20grounds%20map.pdf

Chapter 01

RETURN TO THE SCENE OF THE WRONG

I shivered in cold anticipation of what lay ahead.

Without thinking I quietly whispered my personal mantra to myself as if afraid the world would notice. This was how I could stay in control, maintain my sanity.

So very quietly I said, I am Doctor Janet Regina Reilly. I am a respected healer and psychiatrist. I belong to the Waikato Institute for the Mentally Distressed. I am a woman who is loved. I am in control.

I repeated this, forcing myself to relax, until I could pretend that I could hold back the sickly dread churning away inside me. I focused again on what I needed to do, rather than what I wanted. I knew the inevitable outcome if I let my guard down. Today was not the day to allow my instincts free rein; they would inevitably let me down yet again.

I had been agitated ever since I awoke this morning. Truth be told though, the fear had been gnawing away at my soul for what seemed forever. I could have stayed at home safe under my cosy sheet blissfully ignoring the fact that this day had come. I had warmed to this wicked temptation but in the end I had to reject this fanciful desire. I knew that hiding away from the world would require me to call Him with some half-baked untruth, knowing He would recognise the lie.

Even worse, He would understand.

Had I stayed home snug, hidden from the sodden, unfeeling world then He would know that I had failed Him, again.

That was worse than any of my fears; but only just.

I knew this day was coming but ‘ignored the bleeding obvious’ as my grandfather had often said to me. I always was amazed by my capacity for denial, especially for someone in my profession. I was in particular good at denying my own denial—this was the type of circular logic that somehow always appealed to me, not that I would ever admit to such a fanciful failure of logic, then again, would you?

But today neither King Canute nor I could stop the inexorable progress of time. So last night I readied myself. I even spent time on what to wear, a significant departure from my lifelong habit of ‘grab first, think later’.

Now sitting in my car I knew that my silky blue body suit would have been better. The silky fabric would have drawn away the clammy perspiration that stuck my clothes to me like glue. But who knew I was going to sweat so much? And apologies to Queenie as I meant perspire or was the old adage, glow?—Of course we both should have known that my two and a half million sweat glands would betray me just as my stomach had.

So despite my careful preparations, and putting aside an unexpected disgorging of my breakfast, I found I was running late—yes I know. Yuk. Just be glad I had only had beans. And I am truly sorry but surely if I have to suffer then so should the rest of the world don’t you think?

While not exactly uncommon for me, why oh why did I have to be late today of all days?

I remembered how carefully I had packed my old leather briefcase—and yes I know that I was carrying an ex-possum, but the case was a gift from my mum many years ago. She had not fully grasped that the world had since moved on. And besides I was sure that possums hadn’t become endangered until later, so there.

I had checked the contents several times to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything and had even put in some pencils that now rattled each time I unsuccessfully dodged a pothole—Pencils? With actual graphite? My dog! I ask you, who in the year 2065 actually uses pencils, even if you could get paper to write on? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I shook my head. Talking to oneself was not exactly going to solve my problems for me.

I consoled myself that my lack of punctuality could hardly be blamed on me. Could I have foreseen that the exit from my car park would be blocked? And by a street full of reluctant cars waiting for a broken tow truck to be dragged away—Yes I know, of all things a tow truck. And the damn thing had been towing a bus when it broke down. Can you possibly imagine the chaos that had erupted around my building?

Unfortunately I did not need to imagine it, lucky me. If I was a superstitious person I might have seen that as a sign not to venture outside, but unfortunately I was bound more to the logic of science than the whimsy of fate, thank dog.

My stomach brought me back to the present as the familiar sickly feeling began once more to crawl up my throat. I swallowed hard several times, forcing the bitterness down where it decided to turn cartwheels instead. My small victory left me with a burning sensation in my throat. Another reminder of how badly my day had begun.

Great, not!

Putting aside the tow truck debacle, the trip from the City was uneventful so I arrived earlier than I should have but later than I could have—don’t worry, you’ll get used to how my mind works although I’m not sure whether that would be a good thing. I’ll leave that for you to worry about.

I worried about our internal conversations. Did they suggest something other than a good and healthy mind? But I had passed all the psycho-tests, and more than once, so who was I to argue as to my sanity—not you that’s for sure.

So I sat parked in my little old Punda opposite the entrance to my own private hell. My car more ready than I to pass through the open gates and down the familiar snaking driveway. The way was clear. I could wait no longer.

So with some reluctance I activated my Punda and drove between two glowering stone eagles. They were perched unmoving atop their towering red brick aeries. I knew them well but considered our association somewhat adversarial. I was pretty sure that they viewed our relationship in the same way. I remembered their disappointment the last time I had passed them by. It was when I had escaped from this here, fleeing the anguish of my great failure. Now the eagles’ gloomy facades mirrored my own grey mood.

The incessant grey drizzle did little to help.

The Punda made its way up the driveway, tyres crunching resentfully against the exotic scoria. These shattered pieces of rock were a gift from Ngati Whatua, a neighbouring northern tribe. They had proudly quarried these fragments from one of many volcanoes that protruded from their coastal city. The rock reminded me of happier times long ago when they had brought their broken people to my City of the Waikato to heal. They had joined many other such peoples from throughout the northern island of what was then known as New Zealand.

The time had been wonderfully joyous and so soon after September 2053. That was when we had all formally, though for many quite reluctantly, joined the Australasian Alliance. We did so as two separate states, the northern island Te Ika-a-Maui and the southern island Te Waka-a-Maui. Te Waka was where I came from. Te Waka, more populated because of the great migration south, still claimed the stillness and grand beauty of the Southern Alps.

I missed the sight of those enchanted mountains. I had lived in Te Ika, and more specifically Waikato City, its capital, for all of my adult life. Te Ika had the odd summit but these were predominantly volcanoes which did little to engender the feeling of awe as did my magnificent ranges. Also my mountains did not have a tendency to explode in primeval fury every six or seven years, as Tongariro had done just last year. At least this time there were only a few deaths and those were just tourists. Yes, I know it’s wrong to judge people solely based on where they came from, even tourists. And yes everyone is equal in stature and opportunity, blah, blah, blah. I know this is true because my dad said so. And yes, I have already mentally added this to my ‘naughty’ list.

I had a ‘nice’ list too but, well, to be truthful that wasn’t much of a list at all.

The celebrations were held in February 2054. This was when the Institute had been given leave to accept patients from throughout all of Te Ika. That is once the tribal congress had finally removed their veto from the national parliament. Until then the intake had been limited to just The Waikato region.

There were of course the normal prophets of doom who insisted people with mental illness should remain within society. However since the Abel Tasman killings public mood stiffened, darkened, and large centralised facilities were once again deemed more suitable. I had often wondered, Suitable for whom? But even I, prophet of doom numero uno, had to agree that having patients, doctors and technicians in one place worked well. That is as long as funds were there and so far so good. There was even fairly decent subsidised accommodation for visitors in a specially built marae located about fifteen minutes towards The City.

I had joined the Institute a few weeks prior to the grand intake. I had been a naive intern, fresh from several years at Otago Medical School, the ink still wet on my qualification. That is figuratively speaking as they ceased providing physical documents long ago. Regardless, the certificate was still attached proudly to my bio-file.

I was happy then, despite knowing that it would be many years yet before I was a fully qualified and registered psychiatrist. I knew the road was long but I was young, motivated and felt that my choice was probably what I wanted to do. No, that’s not honest; this was what I had always wanted. To save people from their inner demons; for reasons unknown—and no, I wasn’t and am still not particularly religious in case you were wondering, despite coming from Te Waka. It’s just a saying for dog’s sake.

The time was full of great happiness and greater hope as officials and iwi gave their grand speeches—by the way iwi is Māori for tribe for those goof-balls that missed or failed their Te Reo classes.

Māori language classes were compulsory for one year in all Te Waka schools in year nine. Assuming of course you were one of those who actually chose to go to school. I always found it a bit embarrassing as everyone in Te Ika took Te Reo all the way through High school. As a result everyone here was pretty damned near fluent in Te Reo. Everyone except me of course.

As I was saying, there were all sorts of people who had gathered to welcome visitors with speeches and song, including government officials—yes I know I should classify them as people too, I guess, maybe. And I don’t mean the ones who actually do things like nurses and teachers and psychiatrists, but that other type. Go on, you know who I’m talking about.

There was entertainment, sport and let’s not forget the food. Lots and lots of wonderful food. As a poor starving intern I remembered the food most of all. Everyone felt as one. As if we were being reborn and everything was new and the possibilities endless. This was true especially in my own field of psychiatry where we had made huge leaps forward in the detection and treatment of mental illness.

But now?

Those days now felt distant, cold, as if mere shadows of something that had never been. Once again a cold shudder ran up my back and I shivered despite myself.

My mind returned to the now. As a psychiatrist I recognised my mental trips as an obvious avoidance technique. A means to sidestep having to think of the present, Wednesday 12th August 2065, eleven years since those happy times. Unfortunately my return to the present also meant that I had to face my tragedy.

No, I corrected myself, the tragedy was not mine. My failure was a greater tragedy for that poor young man. I had failed to empathise with him. Failed to recognise the danger he was in. Or so my conscience kept telling me, again and again and again. His tragedy was my heartbreak. How could I have not been aware of the signs? How could I not have provided the help that the trusting young man had surely sought?

The inevitable board of inquiry had cleared me. Official-speak reports denied fault by any persons connected to the Institute. The ‘event’ was explained as a string of unanticipated circumstances unlikely to recur. Causation was due to an impulse here, an opportunity there. And let’s not forget the victim. The report suggested his personality rating was one of those rare few that fell within the diagnostic margin of error—killed by a statistic. That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Not.

The report also proffered some feel good recommendations. Naturally the Institute responded in the long recognised bureaucratic technique of agreeing to everything and announcing that reforms had been implemented or were well underway.

So all the boxes were ticked. Everyone was happy. And everything carried on as normal. The swiftness of the review had been assisted by the fact that the young man had no family, no friends. No one to stand up for him. That was another brick in my wall of shame.

I had found his body at the back of his closet. His life ended as it had begun; curled tightly into a ball. Alone in the dark. Despite all patient rooms having extensive electronic monitoring, this had not been enough for help to reach him in time. I had been nearby when the alarms went off but not close enough. He had had plenty of time to splatter his life force all over the room before crawling to his last refuge. I remembered the bloody trail that marked his final journey. His actions were as deliberate as they were excessive. It was clear that the first few slashes were sufficient but his relentlessness was as clear as his intent.

The review panel had taken a couple of days to find where he had acquired the old fashioned razor. Seemingly he had borrowed the blade from another patient, despite her denials. She now resided in a ward known colloquially by all as ‘Espoir’. This nickname arose from a phrase scratched long ago on the inside gate, ‘Là où l’espoir demeure toujours’ (where hope still remains). Unlike most other graffiti at the Institute, this expression had never been removed by management.

The death of the young man had happened thirteen weeks ago, almost to the day. At the time I had felt my failure oozing from my every pore. My body screamed to fight; or to flee. As there was nothing to fight against I had fled to anywhere but here. There had been no difficulties when I sought leave for an indefinite period.

The suits had smiled politely and called my urgent need a sabbatical. Time to recover, they had declared in their condescending callousness. Just put it all behind you and come back fresh and rearing to go.

Bastards! If only.

For the first few weeks I travelled through mainland Australia avoiding the conflict up north and bouncing from one nameless town to another. I travelled around what was left of the outback; being spat at by camels and dancing around make believe camp fires. And not forgetting falling down ravines—well to be fair it was just one ravine actually.

The oh-so-not-aborigine guide, who was whiter than I was putting aside the layers of encrusted dirt, called it a small crack and laughed his head off when I disappeared over the side. The slope had seemed pretty steep as I slid/fell/tumbled down the slope. We went our different ways after that. He took the rest of the group to Lake Eyre while I went further afield.

One day I found myself wandering aimlessly around a crappy little market in some forgotten backwater of a country. I wasn’t even clear which country I was in or why I was there. I just felt stupid and lost. I then seemed to wake up and decided to return home to my bolt-hole. My apartment was now my sanctuary in The City. This was where I spent the rest of the time licking my wounds, gathering my strength. Then I decided to return to the scene of my failure. Not as some stupid healing technique but to move on with my life. Like the suits had said. Just put my failure behind me.

And now I found myself back at the scene of the… the incident, heading up the, oh too familiar driveway. Every tree, every blade of grass was shouting at me. Do you remember, do you remember?

I remembered alright.

My Punda hummed to a stop, yet I lingered. I looked across the car park to the steps leading up into the building that housed administration. The building also held the offices of those doctors not based in specialised wards. I was one of the few that supposedly could leap the gulfs between various specialities. This ‘gift’ was looked down on by many of my peers, given their inability to do so. I suspected that many may have felt that this was a reason for my failure. I could not really argue.

I sat unwilling as yet to get out of my car. I repeated my mantra quietly to myself. Each time I emphasised the final word, ‘control’. As always the simple statement lifted my heart and my demons fell back, restrained for now. My mantra reminded me of when my parents had left our home town of Alexandra to cheer me at graduation. I remembered how overwhelming my confidence and passion had been then. I had promised myself that I would never lose that fervour as I had seen the passion die in others. They had been left with nothing but their professional cynicism to support them. The passion had almost been snuffed out in me too, but no… NO!

My eyes moved to the doorway. It was slightly ajar, almost a welcome maybe? I had hoped that I would be met. Surely someone would be there to escort me across my final hurdle. Surely they understood the need for someone to stand beside me. Stand against the implied threat of that brooding monolith. But no, whether deliberate or not the result was the same.

I was alone, as always.

I looked across to some of the other buildings, visible from where I sat. The Institute was spread over quite expansive, tree covered grounds, a trade off from being built well east from the City. It was one of the largest institutions that looked after those unable to cope with life outside these walls. Many were here by choice but for some their problems required a more interventionist approach. Regardless, the form and intensity of their story was no less distressing for each of those that had suffered a loss of themselves.

Each building housed compatible patient types, or ‘guests’ as He, the great Director insisted they be called. The buildings were a good walking distance from each other linked by pristine concrete paths. Given the relentless precipitation each was sheltered by plastic sheeting tilted to allow the rain to gush off into drains. They felt like arteries pumping life blood through the body of the Institute with the brain being the building in front of me. This was especially evident as its location was at the centre of the grounds. The concrete paths had replaced the older dirt tracks after the last visit from Occupational Safety and Health. While they had been able to fix the paths they held no sway over the mood that radiated from the buildings themselves.

No more excuses, it was time.

I closed my eyes swallowed hard and, with what I hoped was a suitably detached air of assurance, stepped out from my car. It took no more than a few seconds for my pretence of professionalism to vanish. I had stepped into a dirty pool of water, camouflaged by the surrounding rusty coloured scoria. I felt the puddle laugh at its delight in catching its prey in such a simple trap. My foolishness impelled me forward as I put aside any thought of composure to scramble across the car park. I flew up the steps and through the entrance, my battered briefcase knocking against my skinny legs.

As soon as I was inside I slowed as I found myself alone in the roomy entry corridor. Thank dog no-one was here. In the corner of my eye I caught sight of the huge mirror on the left wall. I had always thought it odd that the first thing anyone would see was their own image glaring back at them. Quite a scary thought in this place.

I looked at the thin, pale, middle aged woman staring back at me. Her dirty blond hair cut very short, maybe too short? She seemed a blank with nothing that defined her. The beginnings of a small pool began to spread on the floor around her. The residual rain dripped from her transparent all-weather poncho, the hood thrust back as she had come inside. Her clothes boringly professional, clearly designed to merge into this colourless, lifeless place.

Grey, I fumed, What utter madness was I thinking last night when I decided that grey was a good thing? My words echoed down the hallway reminding me of where I was.

I thought again of my nice cobalt blue outfit and how it would have gone very nicely with my white scarf that I had bought a few days ago. I remembered now that I had bought the scarf just for this occasion. But grey, arghh!!! I hadn’t even put on any makeup, or danglies, though to be fair I normally didn’t, but why not today.

Some foundation would have been nice? I quietly asked myself as I turned my head this way then that, trying to convince myself that I still looked respectable, and maybe even slightly desirable, maybe?.

But the mirror simply smiled its neutral smile as the reflection showed a truth that I was reluctant to accept.

I sighed, knowing that it was far too late to do anything about it. Also, unlike many of my sex, I had not got into the habit of carrying reconstructive powders. With that thought I did vaguely remember some months ago I had dropped a lipstick into my briefcase. Can’t remember why but I dug down to the depths of the bag and with a triumphant cry produced the aforesaid cylinder. I looked at the name of the colour on the side of the cylinder.

Greystroke.

I couldn’t believe it, even more grey. I threw the lipstick back in my briefcase in disgust and, with another deep sigh, trudged towards reception.

Thankfully the reception area was unoccupied, not surprising as the time was morning tea. Some random machine purred the time to me as I went past—damned evil machines. Did I look like I wanted to be reminded of the time?

The absence of a receptionist didn’t matter as my Badge of authority was pinned tightly on my jacket—yes the grey one!!!

The Badge bore my name and title. More importantly the small plastic insignia allowed access to most secure areas of the Institute, including the rooms of those guests designated as my primary responsibility.

I slowed when I reached the final barrier, the security Door. Without any prompting my personal intelligent device, which I called AI, somehow ‘talked’ to the Door. I sort of always kept the device in my briefcase. Then, as if only reluctantly convinced that all was well, the Door swung slowly open. The mechanics were unknown to me as I had no interest in this type of magic. My speciality was the mind of my fellow man, not their mindless creations.

As a general rule I tended to steer clear of machines, especially the smarter ones that pretended they could think. The only exception was my AI. The device was my personal interface with the machine world, and I would have to admit, with much of the human world as well.

I had reached the elevators and saw that both were stationed at the top floor. They seemed to be in a competition to see which would be the last to move. That was the floor where most suits were to be found. They were the management bodies that ran the Institute and who I avoided at all costs. After all nothing good ever seemed to come from there—some imaginative soul had nicknamed that place ‘Mordor’ some years back but let’s just say that the suits were not amused. I can’t remember the young man’s name as he now worked in Espoir. As I said, nothing good ever seemed to come from there.

The left elevator finally blinked showing the beginning of its downward progress. Once the elevator reached my floor the damned thing begrudgingly opened its doors to admit me. I entered the boring little box and it took me to my floor without instruction. I assumed the box knew from my AI where I wanted to go. As soon as the doors opened I scurried down to my office and once the Door closed behind me at last I was safe again.

I sat behind my desk feeling as if a stranger in familiar surrounds. The drizzle had finally decided to become a downpour. I saw the great volumes of water pouring from the sky on one of my wall Screens. The sight of all that water was beautiful, that is if you were nice and dry inside. I was thankful that the season was autumn so at least it wasn’t cold. I looked around and saw little had been disturbed since the last time I had sat in this chair. My precious books, paper ones and not those imitation plastics, were crowded on a makeshift bookcase behind me. My desk was made from rimu, a great tree of the forest and an unpopular choice in today’s ‘conserve at all cost’ climate. The wood was warm and welcoming and for that I was grateful. I had borrowed the desk from the office of a departing colleague and was thankful that somehow AI kept my desk hidden from the clutches of Property Services.

The rest of the room was strewn with an assortment of chairs and a single low table with the marks of constant use recorded on its circular top. There were a couple of random medical charts pinned to the wall as well as a clock that never worked. There were also some more detailed pictures of a three dimensional human neural network focusing on the personality nodes.

I had not noticed until now that there wasn’t anything personal. There was nothing that described the occupant of this room. Not even some whimsical cartoon or piece of art or other such decoration. Definitely something that needed to change.

AI, I instructed, Remind me tonight to get something arty for my office.

The little device beeped quietly to let me know it had heard me.

Putting aside my lack of aesthetics, there were two of the ubiquitous Screens imbedded in the walls. They were to be found throughout the Institute and were linked to the Institute’s intelligent network, called Core. I always had one of these preset to show an external view since my room, as with most others, had no windows. Even though it was raining it felt nicer seeing something natural in this otherwise stark place.

And there I sat, waiting, alone again.

It did not take long.

As everywhere where humanity congregated, an inevitable grapevine existed. I knew that word of my return would spread, seemingly faster than the speed of thought. I had no misguided belief that I was some sort of celebrity, or was even liked. I did though understand the morbid fascination that would arouse curiosity in those less balanced personalities here—and before you ask, yes, I was talking about my colleagues who work at the Institute, not the poor souls who were our guests.

I felt my muscles tense as a tentative knock heralded the first of my colleagues. Who, I wondered, would be brave or foolhardy enough to welcome me back in person?

I nodded to AI who confirmed to whoever was there that ‘the doctor was in’.

Of course, silly me, she was Patricia Read, a fellow psychiatrist. Quite a popular person I understood, despite (or because of?) being a main source of gossip that organisations like ours lived and breathed on. I think she also had an office in the admin building that she very seldom used. I occasionally met her in the hallways if