DIARY OF A COFFIN DODGER CHAPTER F

Chapter F

Rebekah called out, 'stuff happened at the farmhouse last night, crazy, nasty stuff.'

Her shoes clacked across square shiny black and white Lino floor tiles as she walked out from behind a chrome edged Forest Green Formica counter.

Rebekah headed towards the only other person in the shop. A person who read a Bible as she sat at one of twelve booths.

Rebekah reached that booth and held her skirt in place as she slid onto a Scarlet Red vinyl bench.

Between that item and a similar style of seating, apart from its Avocada Green colour, stood a Coral Skylark Formica table.

Clare, sitting on the green seat, looked up from reading her Bible, lying on the Formica table in front of her.

Above the booths, four fans whirred as they stirred hot, dusty summer air along the length of the grimy pressed metal ceiling of the milk bar.

Clare, her eyes wide with surprise, replied, 'what do you mean?'

With a sudden movement, Clare swung her head to the side and faced the shop window.

She flinched as outside on the main street, a car horn blared and someone yelled. Tyres screeched as dogs barked.

Clare took a deep breath as she turned back to face Rebekah.

'Sorry,' she said, 'That car horn... I'm a bit twitchy about Bill and what he's up to.' She shook her head. 'That, and his talk yesterday of the asylum, which sent nightmares of that place raging through my sleep.'

Rebekah looked concerned as she moved her hand across the table and, with a gentle warm touch, squeezed Clare's hand.

'Well, given what you shared with me last night at my place before evening prayers, I think you have every reason to be jumpy,' Rebekah replied.

She paused before withdrawing her hand.

Clare felt confused.

She didn't know whether she regretted Rebekah removing her hand or whether she welcomed Rebekah removing her hand.

Thoughts interrupted, though, by Rebekah continuing her story.

'So, about ten minutes ago, six blokes, with checked shirts, dark blue jeans and riding boots, strode into the milk bar.'

'They swaggered up to the counter like cowboys entering a bar in some Hollywood movie.'

'I knew some of them from primary school. The headmaster caught them behind the bike shed playing spin the bottle with girls from my class.'

'Anyway, these six blokes pushed their Akubra hats back from their faces and leaned over the counter.'

'I served them meat pies and sausage rolls to take to work, as well as cigarettes, matches, chewing gum, a pint of milk and a packet of Iced VoVo Biscuits.'

It helped to settle her mind by focusing on that list as Rebekah paused and took a deep breath.

'When they weren't leering at me and my, you know,' Rebekah's cheeks flushed as she used her hands to indicate her chest.

Recovering, she continued, 'the blokes boasted and chuckled about chasing the 'leso's' out of the farmhouse at Danvers's old dairy.'

Claire interrupted.

She looked at Rebekah with a worried look on her face.

'Rebekah, that's shocking. How dare those men treat you like that? That must be so upsetting!'

'Yes, it is, but it doesn't happen every time blokes come to the counter, but when it does, I don't like it. It makes me feel uneasy,' Rebekah whispered with a quaver in her voice.

Taking another deep breath and, with her mind settled, she continued. 'So, back to the dairy. That's where your place is, right?'

Clare nodded.

'I thought so,' Rebekah replied.

'But that's weird,' Clare said.

'What on earth were they chasing? There's no one out there as the others have left and I stayed at your place last night. And, let's not forget, the Buggy's parked in your driveway from yesterday afternoon.'

Clare shrugged her shoulders.

'The Buggy was still there this morning when we set off, walking to your place of work, chatting and laughing like two schoolgirls.'

Rebekah, her voice soft, said, 'I enjoyed that walk more so than the other times I have walked to work.'

The bell above the shop door tinkled, stopping Clare before she replied.

Rebekah turned towards the door as the aroma of perfume and sandalwood soap wafted around the milk bar.

Three women stepped through the open doorway and into the shop.

As the door closed, Rebeka stood up and called out as she faced the women, 'Hi! I'll be right with you.'

'Anyway.' Rebekah said leaning towards the table as she turned back towards Clare. 'The blokes. They were laughing about how they put their ute's spotlight on a speeding Holden...'

Rebekah stopped as she stared at Clare's white, drawn face.

'Heck! I bet that's Bill's car! What the blazes was he up to!' Clare exclaimed.

'Oh! Dear! Look! Give us a minute. And I'll bring you over a cuppa. And some cream buns?'

They gave each other an intense, searching gaze as Rebekah smiled.

Clare welcomed the fellowship on offer as her memory savoured the taste of the buns. She whispered, 'that would be beautiful,' and reciprocated the smile.

Rebekah turned and walked towards the three women now standing at the counter as Clare resumed reading her Bible.

About eighteen months before Clare and Rebekah chatted between themselves at the milk bar, it felt like I had volunteered to lead a Biblical type journey to a Promised Land. A journey to a place not of milk and honey but of freedom from captivity and tyranny. A journey to set free two people from the barbed snares of an unjust, brutal imprisonment.

A journey that included striding towards a Burnt Orange Volkswagen Kombi on a night for a fervid imagination to conjure up yarns about ghosts.

A night for the souls of memories of what lives had once been to slip in and out of the minds of over a thousand people. Some of those folk awake, some tossing and turning in their beds, others with moaning dreams, and a few resting with the sleep of the blessed.

Dreams rattled by a lonely, whispering breeze as it ruffled the unkempt grass over unmarked graves and whistled grim dirges along dank, gloomy corridors. A sad, pensive breeze wandering through the dark, watchful shadows cast by buildings splattered across two hundred acres of ground. A perturbed breeze that shook the drainpipes and windows of those fifty asylum buildings.

On this night, in a ward in one of those buildings, male nurses had incarcerated Clare.

She was not the only one, though, I met for the first time on that moonless night locked in an asylum cell by those grim, unsmiling, health care facilitators. A meeting also with Jane in the harsh confines of the asylum on the first night of my annual leave.

Clare ended up locked in a ward of the asylum after she joined a group of university students. They volunteered to take part in an experiment to test the veracity of the admission criteria to the asylum. To do this, they put their hands up to be admitted to the asylum as pseudo-inmates.

However, the Professor that led the group in this social experiment had little experience with the unbridled power of pissed-off men. Therefore, his eyes weren't open to what his volunteers were getting themselves into when they took part in the experiment.

And neither did they as, a couple of days before I went on leave, they began a journey into an experience that went beyond their wildest nightmares.

A journey that started as the volunteers began the Professor's experiment as, one by one, spaced over several hours, they presented to or were taken to the Admission Ward, Ward 7.

As I found out later, Clare joined the group with a whacked out notion of witnessing to the inmates and opening their hearts to Christ. Though why she chose this way of doing so is beyond my comprehension.

The pseudo-inmates in being admitted to the asylum in the way the Professor proposed challenged the authority of the two groups who ran the asylum.

Groups with the male-centric values of misogyny and power to the outer limits of legality: male nurses and male medical staff.

However, I only learnt of this challenge to the male hegemony of the asylum during the twenty-four hours before that first day of my annual leave.

On the day before my leave started, I whistled jaunty tunes as I strolled towards my rostered ward.

A Pied Butcher Bird's melodic call drifted through the chilly morning shadow of Long Stay Rehabilitation Ward 6 as I approached the ward entrance.

With a soft tread, I walked through the entrance.

An oppressive, moody silence weighed upon my shoulders as I stepped into the long, gloomy corridor that ran from the front of the ward to the back.

I filled my mind with soothing holiday thoughts as I walked with quick steps through the silence towards the doorway that opened onto the back veranda of the ward.

My tummy was happy after my breakfast break as I reached the doorway and stepped through into bright morning sunlight spilling along the length of the open veranda.

I rolled my shoulders as I stood looking along that spacious veranda.

I watched two black and white magpie-larks bobbing and weaving as they strutted their way along the dull red tiles of the veranda floor.

Movements unperturbed by the acrid cigarette smoke spiralling out from a row of vinyl armchairs.

The chairs, coloured either Burnt Orange, or Lime Green or Sapphire Blue, crowded against each other. Acrid black cigarette burns pitted the arm rests of each chair.

This arrow straight row of three dozen chairs, four yards back from the edge of the veranda, fulfilled its purpose.

Rather than encouraging informal gatherings and promoting conversations, cleaning the veranda was the priority. The straight row offered few impediments to the domestic staff when they mopped down the veranda of an afternoon.

Each chair, jammed against the lower half of the dull brown brick wall of the ward, occupied by an inmate either staring into space, or puffing on a cigarette.

About six yards away from the edge of the open veranda, a row of scraggy, nondescript shrubs marked the boundary of the unlocked ward. The drooping foliage adorned with brown, shrivelled flowers.

Between the shrubs and the edge of the veranda, a single shabby, dark blue slatted garden bench rested on a scruffy green lawn. A lawn littered with cigarette butts.

Shade from the shrubbery seeped over the two male nurses and one female nurse sitting on the bench seat, laughing and chatting amongst themselves while ashing their cigarettes over the lawn.

A lawn pock-marked by grass-free patches of sandy soil as the lawn spread out from the shrubs and touched the edge of the veranda floor.

At the far end of the veranda from where I stood, near a toilet block, three inmates and another person chatted.

The person's spontaneity, their ease of manner and ready laughter enlivening the edgy morning air piqued my curiosity.

As I walked towards them, the inmates moved away towards the toilet block.

As I drew near to the person, I said, 'Hi! Are you a visitor? If you are, sorry to say, you're outside visiting hours.'

The person grinned and said, 'No! No! No! You know what? I have interacted with at least half a dozen, either grey or light blue uniformed nurses, since my admission to this ward last night. You are the first one to challenge me.'

'You're an inmate? Go on! Pull the other one!'

The person laughed and said, 'My name is Robin and I am a pseudo-inmate!'

'Wacko!' I replied, struggling to contain an enthusiastic cry, 'you little beauty!' I tipped her a wink and continued. 'This admission business is bogus. Tell me more.'

After I introduced myself, Robin chatted about the Professor's social experiment.

She talked about the other members of the group, as well as the teaching and role playing they undertook regarding admission procedures and the alleged symptomology of mental illness.

While we were chatting, I took a notebook and biro from a pocket of my uniform.

I wrote my name and phone number on a page, tore out the page, and handed it to Robin.

She pocketed the page, smiled, then said, 'I’d like to do the same'.

I handed her the notebook and pen.

She wrote on it and handed the notebook and pen back to me.

While returning the items to a pocket of my uniform, I noticed the nurses on the garden bench had stopped chatting.

They dropped their cigarettes onto the ground, ground them into the lawn with their shoes, and stared at the other end of the veranda.

I glanced back along the veranda as the magpie-larks flew off the veranda, screaming harsh alarm calls.

I watched, with trepidation, five male nurses, not rostered to Ward 6, filing onto the veranda from the doorway I walked through about ten minutes ago.

The male nurses' shoes drummed out a loud frightening rhythm on the red tiles as they strode towards Robin and I.

I knew the jig was up.

As inmates cowered in their coloured vinyl seats, I whispered to Robin, 'run! And don't look back.'

'Why?'

'Back along the veranda,' I whispered.

Robin's face went pale when she looked towards the male nurses, oozing testosterone. They had clenched fists and a pissed-off expression on their faces.

Robin whispered, 'thanks' and squeezed my hand before sprinting from the veranda.

She dashed across the lawn, past the shrubs, and belted out of the ward's confines.

I turned from watching Robin running for her life and yelled, 'smoko!'

For years before, during and after my time at the asylum, the New South Wales Government provided free cigarettes to the asylum's inmates.

In Ward 6, the locked shabby off-white wooden cabinet for these smokes stood against the veranda wall behind where Robin and I had been chatting. My allocated duties for the shift included that of 'smoko' nurse. Therefore, I had the key to the cigarette cabinet.

The throng of inmates gathering around me and the opened cigarette cabinet impeded the progress of the male nurses.

Though I felt their glares burning into my back, I did not look in their direction. I continued to dish out cigarettes and lit them as requested.

Several decades after that incident, the New South Wales Government stopped issuing free cigarettes to inmates. A state-wide smoking ban in healthcare facilities coincided with this event.

When the government announced the ban, asylum nurses threatened to take strike action if smoking was banned in the asylum, as smoking, the nurses reckoned, helped keep inmates calm. This assisted asylum nurses in achieving their goal of working restful, trouble free shifts.

Like the three nurses sitting on the garden bench in Ward 6, untroubled by the male nurses who had stormed along the veranda towards Robin and I.

As soon as the male nurses swaggered away from the horde of inmates lighting and smoking duries, the three nurses lit cigarettes and resumed giggling and chatting.

A primal need, that aim of working restful, trouble free shifts, that trumped the health benefits of inmates giving up smoking cigarettes. Because smoking was not banned in the asylum.

As the throng of inmates around the cigarette cabinet dissipated, I locked the cabinet door.

I watched the magpie-larks fly back onto the dull red tiles of the veranda floor as the last of the male nurses filed through the doorway and off the veranda.

My four weeks of paid annual leave started the day after the five male nurses charged along the veranda to manhandle Robin and drag her out of the ward.

Twenty-eight days plus weekends away from the asylum was a holiday in itself. The relief at not having to think about the asylum for that period of time sent my spirits soaring into the heavens.

But on that first day of leave, the phone rang in the hallway of the house where I was staying. A commodious double storey brick and tile dwelling in Wentworth Avenue, Vaucluse.

I walked to the phone placed on the top of a green wooden table with a shelf under the phone stacked with phone books. A pen and notepad were by the phone. Standing on the floor on the other side, a brown straight-backed chair with a padded white seat rested against a wall.

I sat down, picked up the phone, and was greeted with a friendly ‘Hi!’ from the other end. 'It's Robin. I spoke with you yesterday in Ward 6.'

'Uh-huh,' I replied. 'Hi! Yep! I remember.'

Robin had a quaver in her voice as she continued.

'I got away, thanks to you. I've had nightmares over the looks on the faces of those male nurses. Their looks and that body language terrified me.'

She paused, 'but it's not me I am worried about. Clare, a member of our group, hadn't returned to uni. And we hadn't heard from her. However, early this morning, we found out she is being held at the asylum.'

Robin started crying.

'They released another member of our group, Tim, a few hours ago. But what they did to him...' Robin's sobs grew louder.

When the sobbing eased off, Robin said, 'Unbelievable. The Professor, all of us are shocked. No one expected the level of violence Tim was subject to.'

'The Professor has stopped the experiment. He had tears in his eyes when he spoke with us this morning in his rooms at the uni.'

'So, of course, we're scared witless at what has happened to Clare.'

'I spoke this morning with the Professor after he spoke with us. I told him how you saved me yesterday. We wondered if you might help us to keep Clare safe.'

I took several deep breaths as I held the smooth black Bakelite telephone receiver in my hand as I sat on the straight-backed chair.

The delightful melodic carolling calls of currawongs flowed into the house as I fiddled with the long black telephone cord linking the receiver to the phone.

A faint whiff of beeswax drifted from the dark brown polished floorboards of the hall as I gazed towards the open front door at one end of the hall.

I looked across a sun-filled porch towards the distant sound of a lawn mower. The sound and the smell of mown grass wafting into the hallway evoked memories of languid conversations. Unfocused convos., cool drinks and reading paperbacks with a settled mind on somnolent summer days.

'Are you still there?' Robin enquired.

'Yes,' I replied, returning, with a jolt, to present matters. 'Sorry. I got wrapped up in my thoughts. It's blown my mind what has happened.'

I’m constantly surprised, unfavorably so, by the asylum. I share your concern about Clare's safety. It's unconscionable to keep her there, so of course I want to help. With a bit of time, I will get this sorted.'

Drifting into the hallway, from beyond the porch, came the sound of a barking dog and a child’s voice calling, 'catch!'

'I am on leave,' I continued, 'and cannot make enquiries at the asylum. I have an idea, however, how to deal with this shocking business and rescue Clare from the asylum.'

After Robin and I chatted about this and that, as well as what happened to Tim, she thanked me as we ended the call.

Therefore, despite my expectations and dreams of a holiday away from work, the damn place was front and centre of my mind.

A weighty preoccupation as I drove a friend's Burnt Orange Volkswagen Kombi out from Wentworth Avenue on a moonless night. The first night of my annual leave.

I took a fleeting glance at the grey outline of the Harbour Bridge as I descended the hill into Double Bay. A view obscured as I drove through the shopping centre and onto Kings Cross.

I left the lights of the Cross behind me as I drove along Oxford Steet until I reached Hyde Park and turned into the back streets around the city centre. I left the back streets and joined the mid-evening traffic flowing towards Pyrmont Bridge.

That stream flowed at a steady pace as I crossed the bridge, swung onto Victoria Road, and headed for the asylum.

I entered the asylum via a back entrance and drove around the grounds at a slow pace, guided by the vehicle's parking lights.

Samantha, who I shared the house in Wentworth Avenue with, whispered as she sat in the front passenger seat.

'How does anybody find their way around this spooky place unless they live or work here? I haven't seen a name on the side of a building or a sign giving directions.'

'That's deliberate,' I replied. 'A bloody-minded way of discouraging friends and family from visiting those they care about. To visit a loved one becomes a frustrating, aggravating battle, so why bother?'

'That's damn cruel and mean,' Samantha responded.

'Like Jane's parent's having the family doctor at their house waiting to section Jane when she arrived to have lunch with her mum and dad today.'

'I started crying when I phoned her parent's place after your phone call from Robin.'

'I wanted to know whether Jane was staying at her parent's place or whether we will go to the movies. Jane's mum answered the phone.'

'She sounded happy, so happy she let slip the ward number where Jane is. Her mum bragged about breaking up Jane and I. What a bitch. But it will not happen. We'll fix that bloody bitch tonight, won't we? '

'Yep, we will. Guaranteed.' I replied.

'A mongrel dog receives better treatment than what's been dished out to Jane. It's an absolute bastard of an act. This isn’t just, this isn’t fair. I'm only too pleased to help in releasing Jane.'

'With a bit of luck, tonight, we will take both Jane and Clare away from the cruelty of this wicked institution.'

A night bird glided past the windscreen as we made our slow way to the next ward in our search for Clare.

I had started the search by checking out the cells in the female locked wards.

I knew the misogyny of the male nurses and how they seized opportunities to express it. Therefore, as their authority had been challenged by a female, male nurses needed to punish Clare with solitary confinement. Therefore, to find Clare, I had to search the Single Rooms, the asylum's cells.

However, I shuddered to think of the male nurses taking their misogyny to the level of locking Clare in a male ward. But if I did not find Clare in a Single Room, the male dormitories needed to be searched.

I pulled over to the side of the road as the shadowy cheerless eighth building in our search loomed within the frame of the vehicle's windscreen.

I switched off the parkers and the engine and gazed at the leaden grey coloured windows.

'Hmmm.' I said, 'no light showing through the windows means the night station light is off. Looks like the night-staff have gone beddy-byes.'

Samantha turned towards me and grinned and said, 'works to our advantage.'

I had disconnected the internal lights of the van. Therefore, no light showed when I opened the driver's door.

'See you in five,' I said as I clambered out of the Kombi into the brooding night and headed to the ward.

I had a spring in my step after searching the cells.

I walked out of the ward and headed towards a Burnt Orange Volkswagen Kombi on a night for a fervid imagination to conjure up yarns about ghosts.

When I reached the van, I opened the driver's door and looked at Samantha.

With tears in my eyes, I whispered, 'she's here!'

With a sigh of relief, Samantha replied, 'thank heavens!'

She opened the front passenger door, climbed out, and joined me at the front of the vehicle.

'Ready for this?' I asked.

'As right as I will ever be,' Samantha replied.

'Good on ya.' I tipped Samantha a wink as eerie grey fingers of mist gathered around the van.

With the light of our torches shaded by the cloth we had wrapped around them, we walked towards the ward.

'Where are the cells?' Samantha whispered as we approached the rear entrance to the ward.

'Down stairs,' I replied as the dim light from our torches reflected off the peeling green paint of a door.

'And the night staff have gone beddy-byes?'

'More than that,' I replied and grinned.

'Crashed out in chairs, upstairs in the night staff office, snoring the place down with a couple of bottles of booze at their feet.'

I had left the door unlocked after my reconnoitre, so I pushed it open.

Samantha and I crept through the doorway and made our way to the cells.

'The inmates are locked in the upstairs dormitory. There's only one occupied cell.'

'Poor bloody Clare,' Samantha whispered.

'I recognised her when I shone the torch through the glass slats on the door,' I said.

'She and her group of Christians preached in front of a heckling group of onlookers at The Domain on a Sunday afternoon. I last visited there a couple of months ago. I watched Clare, on several occasions, preaching God's Word and thought you gotta have guts to keep preaching in front of that crowd.'

'So she preached at the 'Soap Box Corner' across the road from the Art Gallery?'

'Yes.'

'I've been to that place a few times but never to listen to the Christians,' Samantha said as we reached the corridor leading to the cells.

We walked along that dank, murky passageway as trembling shadows fled from the dim light of our torches.

When we reached Clare's cell, I unlocked the door with the set of keys given to asylum staff.

The door creaked as I pulled it open.

My tense nerves magnified the volume of the sound. My imagination, therefore, leapt to the possibility that the sound had boomed and echoed along the corridor and woken the night staff.

I looked at Samantha as we switched off our torches.

We waited, but neither the neon hallway lights flickered on nor torch light sent shadows fleeing in our direction.

'Phew!' I said.

'My heart is beating so fast I think it will burst,' Samantha responded.

'OK!' I said.'Let's get Clare back to a world of sanity.'

We switched on our torches and entered the cell.

I went to the bed and attempted to shake Clare awake.

She responded with a groggy snore.

Bloody hell,' I whispered, 'the bastards have over-medicated her. Like totally bombed her out.'

Therefore, Samantha and I half-lifted, half-dragged Clare out of the bed and up to the doorway.

'I won't worry about locking the doors. Let's chance it and focus on getting Clare to the van,' I said.

'Great idea' Samantha replied. 'I don't want to stay any longer in this creepy place than I need to.'

With Clare's arms around our shoulders and an arm each around Clare's waist, we dragged Clare out of the cell and out of the ward.

With our free hands, we held our torches and made steady but exhausting progress until we jumped as a scream shattered our concentration and stopped our journey.

I watched the upstairs windows as my nerves settled.

'What the heck?' Samantha whispered. 'That has set my heart racing again.'

'Believe it or not,' I replied, 'a night bird, a Barking Owl, made that freaky scream.'

'God! I wish on a night like tonight it had just kept bloody quiet,' Samantha replied.

I grinned and said, ‘Up in the second-story a light’s on. But it's not moving. Come on, let's get Clare into the van.'

We reached the Kombi as a cold, damp mist settled around the van.

As I held Clare against the side of the van, Samantha opened the sliding door.

We lay Clare down on one of the three mattresses on the floor of the van.

As Samantha stepped back out of the van, I rolled Clare onto her side. I put a pillow under her head and drew a blanket over her.

After I wiped the drool from Clare's face with a tissue I took from my pocket, I stepped back out of the Kombi.

I straightened my back as Samantha closed the sliding door.

We switched off our torches and climbed into the front of the Kombi and closed the front doors.

'Holy crap! I'm buggered!' I said as I took slow, deep breaths while resting my head on the headrest.

Samantha chuckled and said, 'I am so totally wasted.'

After I caught my breath, I said, 'Come on! Let's get Jane,' as I started the engine. I switched on the parking lights and checked the rear vision mirror as I drove back onto the road.

For a minute or two, the red glow of the taillights reflected from the downstairs windows as we drove away from the ward.

Up on the second storey, a male nurse stood in front of a window across a passageway from the night nurse's office.

The stench of urine slashed the stuffy air of the passageway after the male nurse unzipped his fly.

As he pissed on the wall below the window, he saw two moving red lights.

'Nah! Not happening,' he muttered as he leant in closer to the window and gazed at the red lights.

'It is!' he whispered as he watched the red lights move away from the ward.

'Nah! It can't be! Must be the flamin' booze. It's time I gave it up.'

He shook himself and did up his zipper as he staggered back into the night nurse's office.

He switched off the office light, tripped over a bottle, and slumped into an armchair.

Weeks later, after I returned from leave, I heard about this incident from the asylum grapevine. An incident, however, the nurse did not mention to the police when they interviewed him the next day.

As the parking lights of the vehicle guided our way to the ward where Jane was incarcerated, Samantha said, 'Seeing Clare, zonked out, dribbling and drooling, I'm shocked that any human being, let alone a nurse, did that to another human being. That's damn disgusting.'

I nodded.

'She was the only one of the group of pseudo-inmates who they caught?'

'Apart from a bloke, Tim,' I replied, 'who the male nurses kept in the Male Security Ward, Ward 29 last night and released this morning after they paddy whacked him.'

'Paddy whacked?'

'The nursing staff's name for beating a person with a phone book.'

'Oh! God! This place is truly evil. Let's hurry and get Jane out of here.'

When we reached the ward where the male nurses and doctors put Jane in solitary confinement, I parked the Kombi on the side of the road. I switched off the lights and stopped the engine.

'Hmmm,' I whispered as I looked at the ward windows through the windscreen, 'this is going to be tricky. There's a light moving through the second storey.'