Rachel Eady with her brother Jonathan, at his residential care house. Rachel is applying to be recognised as his legal welfare guardian.

Rachel Eady with her brother Jonathan, at his residential care house. Rachel is applying to be recognised as his legal welfare guardian.

In the failing light of early evening, the cul-de-sac is a bleak location near the intersection of the Upper Harbour and Albany highways.

Light rain falls as we walk towards the house entrance, past high wire-mesh gates. Inside the yard and approaching the ranch slider, the interior is dimly lit, a television casting its glow on the particle board floor.

Jonathan comes forward from the gloom. "Hello, I'd like to shake your hand," he says. "Both hands," he corrects when I offer my right. So we shake, hands crossed over. An unusual, but friendly greeting. Jonathan, who is 24, was diagnosed as having autism at the age of 7. He has been in care since he was 14. He has lived here for almost three years.

Inside is very bare, with Lockwood pine walls and sarked ceiling. We drift towards the couch in one corner where Jonathan sits with a soft drink his sister has brought. He drinks studiously, draining the bottle with a satisfied burp, then moves on to a plum, which he eats with focused pleasure.

"I'd like some music now please," he says to his younger sister, who asks what he would like. "Pan flutes, Elizabeth," he replies. His older sister asks if he would like the music here or in his room. "In my room, Rachel," he replies decisively.

Rachel checks with the two caregivers. One of them unlocks the middle of three white doors. The bathroom door is also locked, damaged at its bottom right-hand corner. A water stain marks the floor.

Jonathan's bedroom is stark - just a mattress with dishevelled bedding on the floor. One of the caregivers offers me a plastic chair, but warns me to stay seated and not let Jonathan get it.

Rachel plugs in the portable stereo. Pan flutes fill the air. Jonathan listens from the empty wardrobe space. He's restless, moving around the room, turning the light off, then on again. The room's two windows are sealed shut. Ventilation is by three large holes drilled through the glass at the top of each window. There are no curtains, no heater. Cold winter air seeps into the room.

Jonathan is not locked in his room but is confined to the house under 24-hour supervision except for a daily beach walk with two caregivers. The spareness of his room may reflect the fact that at times he becomes angry and destructive. There is nothing else for him to do except watch TV. His sisters talk in distress about how degraded Jonathan's life has become and what happens when he's constantly bored. The room is reasonably clean, but it doesn't pay to look too closely at the walls.

I've come to the house run by Timata Hou, the IHC's designated Regional Intellectual Disability Supported Accommodation Service to see Jonathan's predicament for myself.