Kathryn Fox
Without Consent
The second book in the Dr Anya Crichton series, 2007
1
Temporarily blinded by the flashing bulbs, Geoffrey Willard stepped through the gate. Immediately, the onslaught began.
“Over here,” a man called.
“No, this way,” cried another.
“Geoff! What’s it like to be free?”
A microphone lurched forward and grazed his chin. The impact caught him off balance.
“Do you think you’re rehabilitated?”
Cameras click-clicked.
“Mate, look this way! Show us those baby blues.”
“Sunny, over here!”
Geoffrey instinctively shielded his eyes, the ones that caused inmates to nickname him Sundance, after Robert Redford, only before he turned old and wrinkly
More flashes exploded in the twilight. Not knowing which way to turn, he hid his face with his knapsack. What felt like a fist plunged into his side. As he pulled away with the pain, someone shoved from the other side.
The prison guard held out a baton and opened a narrow pathway. “Come on, back off. Give the guy a break.”
“Yeah, like he did for Eileen Randall?”
Geoff tensed his considerable shoulders and clenched his fists.
“Everyone settle down,” the officer warned. “We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
More cameras fired and someone lunged forward and yanked at his pocket, almost pulling the trousers down in the process. He didn’t even see her face, just a mop of dark shiny hair. Shielding his eyes from a spotlight coming from where they were headed, he called out, “Someone make them go away.”
“We’ll take it from here,” boomed a deep voice. “Car’s waiting.” Geoffrey saw two men in suits holding back the throng. They looked like cops.
“I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“This is for your own protection,” the deep voice growled. This man sounded even angrier than the others.
Suddenly, Geoff felt a whack on his back and stumbled, landing with a thud on both knees. A boot quickly caught his right thigh. The tattered knapsack fell just out of reach.
Bodies and legs surged forward. He could barely breathe.
“Bring back the death penalty!” a woman screamed, and a cheer went out.
Hands dragged him to his feet and forced him, limping, to a white sedan. The door opened from inside and Geoffrey felt a sweaty weight on his crown, shoving him into the back seat. The bag of special belongings followed. The door slammed and he felt safe-like a fish in its bowl. Not safe enough, though, to show his face.
“Stay down,” the huge man beside him growled through closed teeth and swiftly clipped Geoff on the right ear. “And put this on.”
A black cap struck his face.
The front doors slammed and the car screeched away before anyone had time to put on a seatbelt.
“It’s our job to take you to a safe house,” the ear-clipper said.
“Are you taking me to see Mum?” Geoff’s ear burned with pain as he put on the baseball cap.
“The press found out where your Mummy Dearest lived and beat the community into a frenzy. Seems no one wants you in their neighborhood.”
“Is my mum okay?”
“Fellas, Mumma’s boy is all upset,” the driver sniped.
Geoffrey plucked at his trousers, provided by the social worker for his first day of freedom. They were far too loose around the waist and thighs. “Stop making fun of me! Stop it!” He covered his ears, and started humming.
The suit in the front passenger seat turned around, red-faced. “Listen you motherfucker!” His nostrils got bigger and a thin top lip disappeared. “If it were up to me, I’d have let that mob tear you to shreds. Now, shut the fuck up!”
Geoffrey kept his ears covered but stopped humming. He didn’t like these men. They were assholes.
“Reporters two cars back,” the driver announced. “White van and a blue hatchback. Hang on.”
The car braked at an amber light then sped through it, turning with a skid into a side street. Geoffrey sat in silence as the car weaved through traffic, like something out of a TV cop show. He didn’t recognize this area with tall buildings and people everywhere. It was nothing like the old home in Fisherman’s Bay. No sand, no water and no trees.
He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and fumbled for the lighter.
“Not in here, you don’t.” The hand next to him snatched and crushed the last of Geoffrey’s nicotine supply. “Looks like we lost them,” the man added, peering out the back.
The car felt hot and stuffy, like solitary confinement, but Geoff didn’t dare open the window. He thought about his mother. She hadn’t made the trip to visit last week. She’d said she was getting things ready. He began to grind his thumb along the palm of his other hand, over and over again.
He wasn’t supposed to get out until tomorrow, but this afternoon an officer had ordered him to get his things and see the social worker. No one ever explained why. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to his friends, the blokes who’d kept an eye out for him for so long. His thumb moved faster and deeper. Who were all those people outside the prison and why were they all so angry? It was just like in Fisherman’s Bay before he went to jail, only he had known most of them back then.
After a long time, the car slowed outside a row of weatherboard houses. They drove past then did a U-turn and parked in the driveway of a gray house with a dead lawn at the front. A lady with streaky brown hair in a long ponytail came out and opened the car door.
“Hello, Geoffrey, I’m June Bonython, a friend of your mum’s. Best not be seen hanging around out here too long.”
The woman sounded kind-nothing like the dickhead police.
“She’s waiting inside.”
Geoffrey clutched his canvas knapsack and scrambled out of the car. Both legs cramped but he couldn’t wait to get away from his captors. The woman put her hand gently on his back and looked around as they went inside. She made him a bit nervous.
The pair entered, and to Geoff’s relief he saw his mum stand up, straighten out her crisp floral apron and walk slowly toward him. She looked old, really old, and shuffled more than before. Different from how she did when she
