came to visit. But, he thought, she usually sat down in the prison courtyard and didn’t leave until he’d been taken back to the unit.
He didn’t know what to say so he removed his cap, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Lillian’s arms remained rigid by her side.
“I’ll pop the kettle on, then,” she said, breaking the embrace with a pat on Geoffrey’s arm. “And you’ll be growing that hair right back.”
Out of the kitchen stepped Nick Hudson, Lillian’s brother’s son. With a giant grin, he made up for his aunt’s coldness.
“Welcome home, mate!” Two muscled arms grabbed the newcomer, slapping his sides with considerable force. “You’ve been working out a fair bit by the looks of it. Check out those lats!”
Geoff hugged his favorite cousin and hung on tightly.
“I’d have put up balloons but I ran out of time,” Nick said, letting go. “You still like balloons, don’t you, Geoff?”
Geoffrey nodded, unsure whether anyone would make fun of him if he admitted it. So he chose the moment to announce, “They call me Sunny.”
Everyone stayed quiet, as if something were going to happen. Geoffrey replaced the cap and studied the floral carpet, worn thin to brown strands in front of the lounge. He always noticed floors. They were more interesting than lots of people, and no one bothered him whenever he looked down. Not watching had saved his life at least once in jail.
Miss Bonython smiled. “How about a tour of the place? I’ll show you where everything is. We had to organize alternative accommodation at short notice, once the press found out where you’d be living. At least here the toilet and bathroom are separate. Nice and close to your bedroom.”
From the corridor, the sight of a bright blue toilet seat made him chuckle. The towel next to the yellowish hand-basin had frilly lace on it.
“Where’s the paper towels?”
“What do you mean?” his mother asked from behind the procession.
“To wipe my hands on. I always use paper towels.”
“We use proper towels here, Geoffrey.”
“I always use paper.” He began to rub a thumb along his palm. “I
Miss Bonython touched his back. “No problem, Sunny, we’ll get some for you.”
In the next room, a colored quilt lay on an old-fashioned wooden bed. In between two shelves at the head was a panel of white glass with a switch in front.
Geoff reached over and clicked the light on and off, on and off. A big wooden wardrobe covered part of a brown stain on the carpet. The whole space was huge, but the best thing had to be the window. It had a view of the neighbors’ paling fence. Even better, it was open, with no bars. Fresh air and the sound of children playing could get through. He hoped there were kids next door.
“What do you reckon?” Nick slapped him on the back again. “Once you put your own stuff in, it’ll feel more like home.”
Geoffrey swallowed. “It’s good.”
The tour finished with Nick’s bedroom. On the other side of the corridor was a pink room. He knew better than to go in there. His mother would never allow it. Besides, the curtains were all closed on the front side of the house and it smelt musty. It had that old-people smell that reminded him of Grandma-before she got sick and died.
“Smoke?” Nick pulled out a brand-new pack and tipped out two cigarettes. Using one match, he lit the first, then handed the second to his cousin.
After bumming the light, Geoffrey inhaled deeply and blew a series of smoke rings through his mouth.
The kettle boiled and June Bonython excused herself to help with the tea.
“So where’s Brown-Eye?” Geoff asked.
“Geez,” Nick said, “he died years ago.”
“No one told me.” Geoff took a long drag. “He was like your shadow.”
“In a way, he still is.” Nick laughed heartily. “Had the ugly mongrel stuffed for posterity.”
“Right,” was all Geoffrey could think of to say, and he stared back down at the floor.
“Hey.” Nick clapped and flicked the hair from his eyes. “Got a surprise for you, in the backyard. Want to see?”
“Sure.”
They passed the inside laundry and opened a screen door that led to a small grassed yard. Attached to the clothesline, a golden labrador puppy strained at his lead.
“Meet Caesar,” Nick announced. “He’s all yours.”
Geoffrey turned around to see Miss Bonython arrive with two full cups of tea.
“Is he shitting me?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “This is your pup. Donated by a charity that helps people adjust to life outside prison.”
Geoffrey squatted down and received a face-licking. For his trouble, Caesar got a rough pat and a roll in the dirt.
From around the side gate, two of the men in suits reappeared and approached Miss Bonython. Geoffrey quickly retreated toward the back door.
The one with flared nostrils spoke. “No sign of trouble. We’re off.”
The kind woman put the cups down on the back step and followed him out. “Isn’t anyone staying in case the press finds the family? You know what they’re like, with all the publicity about the release.”
“Listen, lady, I’ve got a kid the same age as the one that bastard raped and mutilated.”
“Detective,” she said, “he served his time, twenty years in fact, and by law has earned his freedom.”
“Earned?” He stood with his face over Miss Bonython’s. “That prick hasn’t earned anything. The reason he served the whole damn sentence is ’cause he showed no remorse. Murdering pedophiles like him don’t rehabilitate. They go on to rape and kill again. If you’ve got kids, you’d better lock your doors and windows.”
The woman refused to back down.
“Like I said, he’s done his time. And so has his mother, being forced to leave her home all those years ago and being driven away when anyone discovers who her son is.”
“Our job is to protect the community, not nursemaid pervert child-killers.”
June Bonython put both hands on her hips, but still looked small compared to Bully-Boy.
“Detective, I’m afraid you’re missing the point. Whether you like it or not, the judicial system released Geoffrey Willard back into our community. That makes him someone you are obliged to serve
2
Dr. Anya Crichton detested work-related functions, especially ones that raised money and profiles. Milling around making small talk with people you barely knew-what worse way could you waste an evening? She silently cursed the “social” committees who deemed it part of every job to mix with colleagues on pseudo-social occasions. They should cut out the pretense and just leave a jar in the office for donations.
If she were being completely honest, the real reason she disliked these functions was that they made her feel completely inadequate. Just like she did when she picked up Ben, her four-year-old son, from preschool, and had to chat to the other mothers. Giving birth didn’t automatically bond you with every other mother, a fact few women seemed to appreciate.
She also had to admit that being seen by colleagues was good public relations for her private consulting business. And it never hurt to stay in touch with the politics of forensic pathology as much as the knowledge base.
Glancing around her side of the room, she wondered what she could chat about with someone who played golf,
