Locked Ward

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Natalie King may be a psychiatrist, but that doesn’t mean she can persuade her baby to go to sleep. Sienna wants to party through the night—and lack of sleep is a major trigger for Natalie’s bipolar disorder.

  Sleep school at Southside private psych unit, however, turns out to have its own hazards. It’s bad enough that Natalie doesn’t really want to be there, that she wants to keep her professional status quiet and that she’s seen enough group therapy to be quite sure it’s not her thing. But then someone arrives who Natalie knows very well indeed—and not in a good way.

  Luckily she’s out of Southside by the time the murder happens. Unluckily, she knows everyone who’s involved, including the cops. They think they have an open-and-shut case. Natalie’s pretty sure they’ve locked the door on the wrong person.

  CONTENTS

  Cover Page

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Patient Register

  Before the Murder

  A Straightforward Case

  The Sisterhood

  If Things Can Go Badly, They Probably Will

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  For all the perinatal mental health staff I have had the privilege of working with over the last thirty-five years, in acknowledgment of their dedication to making a real change for women, babies and their families. This story would never have happened on their watch.

  SOUTHSIDE MOTHER–BABY UNIT

  PATIENT REGISTER

  Robbie (partner K.C., child Damon): admitted 22 Jan.

  Phoebe (husband Graydon, child Chabon): admitted 24 Jan.

  Nicki (partner Rocky, child Sam): admitted 25 Jan.

  Yu (partner Chang, child Mei): admitted 28 Jan.

  Jamillah (no partner, child Shamso): admitted 28 Jan.

  Natalie (partner Liam, child Sienna): admitted 1 Feb.

  Angelica (partner Tim, child Lincoln): admitted 1 Feb.

  Maddison (partner Miles, child Amelia): admitted 1 Feb.

  Four days after the murder

  The day started badly, but a pretty standard type of badly for a Monday. By 8 a.m. Sienna had more or less told me she hated me, and spat broccoli over the shirt Liam had put out to iron (don’t get me started on broccoli for breakfast). By 9 a.m. Sienna’s father Damian had offered his colourfully expressed thoughts about my parenting—on speaker—and at ten I was at work, listening to my boss’s less colourful but pointed critique of my time management.

  The day didn’t get any better from there. By 2 p.m. I was up to my neck in murder.

  That wasn’t as unusual for me as it might be for most people: as a forensic psychiatrist I routinely perform psychiatric assessments of accused murderers. In this case, though, I recognised the woman who’d done the murdering.

  I don’t usually see people until after the crime. Unlike a cop, I’m interested less in the crime scene and more in the person who made it happen: who this person is; how and why they got to the point where they eliminated another human being. There’s rarely any question of whether they did it or not. It’s usually down to psychosis, and psychosis isn’t conducive to master-planning. My task, aside from treating their illness, is to help the court decide whether they knew what they were doing at the time.

  The most likely scenario here would be that she’d killed her baby. We get those.

  Postpartum psychosis isn’t that common, but with schizophrenia, drug abuse and personality disorder to worry about, too—not to mention scumbag partners—it sometimes seems like being a baby is a risky endeavour.

  Since Sienna’s birth last year I’d seen only one case of infanticide, and it had been hard. My daughter just had to smile at me and I was putty. The thought of anyone harming her, or any child, made me want to throw up. Feelings that get in the way of being objective and compassionate, which is essential as an assessing or treating doctor.

  In the case of this new admission…well, I knew this woman’s baby.

  I’d spent the last week with her.

  Everyone tells you that having a baby isn’t easy, but until you have one, you don’t truly get it. Little things add up—the need for breakfast in silence (anything in silence), a Saturday sleep-in, a spontaneous meal out or a weekend away—and bigger things pile on to the tally. Self-doubt; wondering whatever made you think you could look after another human being for the next eighteen years; no time to do the talking you need to keep your relationship on-track, let alone enhance it; vengeful exes hovering and hoping for you to fail. And the main problem that brings everyone unstuck: lack of sleep.

  Back before everyone started getting old, I used to sing in a band. I dealt with 4 a.m. finishes and going to work next morning with a hangover, and I was self-medicating the bipolar disorder that sleep deprivation triggered. Things could get a little crazy. But since Sienna was born I had been scrupulous about taking my meds. I knew I had a high chance of postpartum relapse anyway; without the drugs it was pretty much inevitable. And I didn’t want to go there.

  I was not, under any circumstance, going to go into hospital.

  Until I was.

  Before the Murder

  Monday: three days before the murder

  ‘If we’re still here in five days, shoot me,’ I said to Sienna when the Uber dropped us off at Southside Private Hospital. I had to be back at work next week anyway—work being Yarra Bend, the forensic psych hospital.

  There was a common waiting area where sleep-school clients and psychiatric admissions were processed together, and we sat there while the paperwork was completed. The admin staff seemed put out that I didn’t want my surname anywhere except on the bill but that was a non-negotiable for me. You don’t need social media when you’ve got access to the hospital-system rumour mill, and I was able to raise eyebrows in my professional capacity without any juicy additions. As far as these people were concerned I was a mother, not a psychiatrist.

  ‘No fucking way.’ A voice floated down the corridor: someone was reading my mind.

  I peered past the nurses’ station and saw a woman in her early twenties with her arms crossed defiantly. Pixie face, messy blonde hair falling out of a ponytail, an inch of brown roots. She looked like me when I got out of bed first thing for the daily stand-off with Sienna.

  The chirpy nurse who’d welcomed me took a step backwards. ‘The unit manager has asked…’

  ‘It’s an infringement of our rights.’ There was another patient there—this one slight, older, pretty in a pale, nondescript way. Her prim voice wavered from under the kind of neat bob everyone wore in The Great Gatsby.

  ‘My father’s a lawyer,’ bad-hair pixie added. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Maybe—’

  The nurse was interrupted by the arrival of a motherly figure with grey streaked through dark hair who I assumed was the unit manager.

  ‘Nicki.’ She smiled at bad-hair pixie with the air of someone not to be fucked with. ‘What seems to be the issue?’

  ‘She wants to search my room,’ Nicki pouted.

  ‘This looks like it’s going to be entertaining.’ A woman had sat down next to me to get a better view of the fracas. Late thirties, solid build, gold bangles and wide gold diamond-encrusted rings. They looked like the real thing. ‘I’m Angelica,’ she said. ‘What do you reckon Nicki’s up to? Drugs or porn?’

  ‘Who has time for sex?’ I asked. ‘Could be sharp objects.’

  Angelica raised an eyebrow—the sort you paid a lot for in a South Yarra salon. I restrained Sienna from poking her baby, who had to be less than a month old, and we both turned back to watch how the unit manager was going to convince Nicki to let them search he
r room.

  ‘Nicki, I believe you signed the contract with your psychiatrist.’

  ‘I don’t fricking care about any contract.’ Nicki turned to Gatsby-bob woman. ‘Phoebe, can they hold me to that?’

  ‘Perhaps you should call your father?’ Phoebe was looking flushed. There was an air of fragility about her—good chance she had an anxiety disorder, I thought, and being involved in Nicki’s crisis was unlikely to help. I reminded myself I wasn’t here to treat anyone other than myself.

  ‘Let’s talk about this in your room, Nicki,’ said the unit manager with a glance in our direction. She wasn’t taking any argument from either Nicki or Phoebe, as the nurse gently encouraged the latter into the TV room. The manager smiled at us as she came past, leading Nicki to a room at the far end. I felt like applauding.

  ‘Thank god I’m only here until Friday,’ said Angelica.

  ‘Sleep school?’

  Angelica nodded. There were eight beds here, two of them reserved for sleep-deprived women looking for some magic, in this case Angelica and me. The other six beds were for women—including fragile Phoebe and Nicki the bad-hair pixie—with postpartum psychiatric issues. All voluntary—but it didn’t mean some of the women weren’t really unwell.

  I’d suggested Damian come, but of course he said no way. For a cop, he’s soft and fuzzy. But he is a cop. Anyway, lack of sleep was more my problem than his. My mentor, Declan, had said I needed a live-in nanny or I’d relapse, no matter how much lithium I was taking. Sleep deficit and circadian-rhythm disruption are like timebombs for me. And I need the sleep between midnight and 6 a.m.: any other time just doesn’t work in the same protective way. The biology of my trigger is something I picture as a molecule careering around my brain like Gazoo in the Flintstones, only with Jack Nicholson’s face from The Shining.

  A live-in nanny would have been great. But there was no room for anyone extra in my warehouse, which was where we were living since Liam’s ex, Lauren, had taken their kids to Sydney. Liam and I had yet to talk about how that situation was going to play out. Needless to say, making things easier for us wasn’t on Lauren’s agenda; but there was no way Liam was giving up on his kids.

  And Damian and I had yet to talk about the problem of Sienna doing overnights with him and his mother.

  Neither were topics that helped me sleep.

  ‘That’s personal!’ Nicki’s voice came through the wall. I was hiding away in my room, which was next to hers. I told myself it was worth staying for the aircon; there had been a run of very hot days and my warehouse was stuffy at best.

  The nurse, whose name was Dilani, said something I didn’t hear through the banging on the adjoining wall. Nicki’s fist, I imagined.

  I peeked out. Dilani was walking towards the nurses’ station carrying a plastic bag. Looked like weed.

  When she returned, she came in to take my admission history.

  ‘Short version,’ I told her, ‘I need to sleep to stay sane. Sienna likes to party between one and five in the morning.’

  Dilani took a detailed history about the partying, then we moved on to the staying sane.

  ‘Past history?’ She pointed at the heading on her form.

  ‘Admitted once for mania and once for depression. I’m on lithium.’

  Dilani dutifully recorded this. ‘Can you sleep when Sienna isn’t disturbing you?’

  A good question. ‘Mostly.’ Except when my brain started firing up of its own accord—which sleep deprivation could bring on. ‘I take quetiapine if I can’t.’

  Dilani finished the history. I gave her eight out of ten. Only thing she missed was that Liam was not Sienna’s father. I’d written Damian’s name on the form but otherwise referred only to Liam; I doubted she’d notice the discrepancy.

  ‘Okay, we’re done,’ she said brightly. ‘Just in time for you to get to dance therapy.’ So much for hiding.

  I reluctantly let her lead me and Sienna to the group room, where a slightly spaced-out new-ager was handing out brightly coloured scarves.

  ‘I have metal plates in my hip,’ I told her. Courtesy of a motorbike accident.

  ‘Okay, well, just move in whatever way you feel comfortable.’

  Nicki bad-hair-pixie and her mate Phoebe of the Great-Gatsby look were already there, moving around in a way that presumably felt comfortable. For Nicki, that was a rhythmless shuffle from foot to foot, but Phoebe looked like she was doing an aerobics routine. Presumably they’d been here for the previous week’s class.

  Phoebe stopped dancing and raised a hand. ‘I’m Phoebe Hunt and my baby is Chabon.’ She gestured towards a pram parked in the corner.

  ‘As in Michael?’

  Phoebe masked her surprise. ‘I’ve always thought he’s the finest writer in the world.’ She gave a self-conscious little laugh.

  I didn’t have an opinion since I hadn’t read anything of his, just an article about him which, to be fair, probably had said he was a fine writer.

  ‘You seem to have this dance thing in hand. Have you done ballet?’ She had the anorectic look; but maybe that was the anxiety.

  ‘No, I’ve never studied dance,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’m a black belt in taekwondo, though.’

  Okay: looks could be deceptive. If I got bored I could ask her for a few new moves to add to my limited repertoire.

  Nicki ignored me. Still sulking.

  A few other women and their kids sidled in, including—with a nod to me—Angelica. The new-ager led the scarf-waving into nursery-rhyme-singing, then started blowing bubbles—huge ones that fascinated even the smaller children. Sienna was keen to try it herself.

  In the doorway a young woman of Chinese appearance stood watching us blankly. She put her child down on the floor and left, and the little girl crawled over to me. Soon I was managing both children, as well as their scarves and bubbles, until Dilani looked in and frowned. ‘Where’s you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘No, you. Y-u.’ She gestured. ‘And her daughter is spelt M-e-i—pronounced May.’

  I wondered if the play on words was deliberate, and started to contemplate what it said about their attachment before I could stop myself. I was relieved of Mei as Dilani went in search of the mother.

  ‘What other classes do we have to look forward to?’ Angelica asked over lunch.

  ‘Mindfulness,’ said Nicki. She sat down again. She’d already been up and down more times than I could count. I couldn’t exclude sharp objects as a motive for the room search but I thought the smart money was on drugs, and more than just weed. ‘Where you get to pretend you’re a sultana.’

  ‘I think we were meant to concentrate on the sultana,’ said Phoebe as she waved some mushed vegetables in Chabon’s direction. ‘Not be it.’

  Yu had come in as we were talking, turned her nose up at lunch—which for hospital food was half-reasonable—and walked out again. She left the baby strapped in her highchair.

  Phoebe barely suppressed a look of fury. ‘Yu!’ she yelled. ‘Come back and get your child.’ Her face was flushed.

  In a conspiratorial tone, Nicki said to me, ‘Only child, like in China.’

  No sign of Yu.

  When one of the afternoon staff—a short sturdy woman of Southern Asian appearance—looked in, Phoebe seemed relieved. ‘Parveen, can you get Yu? Or take Mei to her?’

  Parveen hesitated.

  ‘We shouldn’t be expected to have to look after any children other than our own,’ said Angelica. ‘And even then, quite frankly, I thought we’d get a bit more help.’ She looked at the nurse pointedly.

  Yu appeared in the doorway. Phoebe, perhaps without thinking, grabbed her arm and Yu wailed as if it had been sliced off, which prompted Mei to start screaming, setting off most of the other children.

  Parveen took charge. ‘Stop this noise! Phoebe? Time out,’ she snapped over Phoebe and Yu’s combined protests, and carted Yu and Mei off to their room. Phoebe was shaking as she left; I had the impression she wanted to let rip but was he
ld back by a lifetime of ‘good girl’ training. Probably what the taekwondo was an outlet for.

  When the remaining babies had been settled, I was gripped by a deep desire to collect Sienna and leave. Tensions in inpatient units were inevitable and maybe I was being oversensitive—lack of sleep wouldn’t be helping. And I knew health professionals made bad patients, me especially since I hated being told what to do. But I didn’t need any extra stress. It was only because Dilani had said the nurses would try to settle Sienna overnight that I decided I’d just return to my room instead.

  As I got up, another woman came in. The first thing I noticed was that she was tall—taller than Angelica who was maybe one-seventy-four—and her skin was the deep black I had seen in a number of my private patients from the Horn of Africa. She was dressed in a long, dark patterned skirt and a scarf that covered her head and shoulders, but if her face and hands were anything to go by, she was painfully thin.

  The second thing I noticed was that she did her best to avoid any eye contact at all. When I did, briefly, catch her eyes as she looked for the water jug, they were completely blank, as though she had pulled a shutter down behind them.

  The third thing was that she was being watched. In the doorway, a stout woman in blue trousers and shirt was keeping a close eye on her.

  ‘That’s Jamillah,’ Nicki whispered to me. ‘Comes with a security guard as part of the package from Nauru.’

  I had heard about immigration detainees—deemed ‘illegal arrivals’ by the conservative government—being sent to the mainland for medical treatment. Melbourne was usually not the first port of call, but it was no further from Nauru than Perth, the other city with ample mother–baby beds. Presumably the immigration department had struck a deal with the private company that ran Southside. The presence of the guard didn’t mean Jamillah was dangerous—just that the government couldn’t afford to lose her.

  But still. A place with an angry taekwondo literary snob, a bad-tempered gossip and a security guard—let’s not even mention the scarves—felt a lot like somewhere I needed to get out of sooner rather than later.