collect evidence, you still have time to decide whether or not you want it released to the police.”
Louise dropped the rug behind her shoulders and revealed a dirt-stained white blouse and navy skirt. Her jaw tightened and she sat up straighter, as though garnering strength.
“All right, I’ll sign, but I need time to think about whether I want the police to know.”
4
Geoffrey Willard sat at the table in his donated clothes, waiting for his breakfast. Six a.m. came and went and the rumbling in his stomach got louder. Still, he stayed at the battered wooden table and waited for someone to tell him what to do. An hour later, his mother appeared in the kitchen in a pale blue dressing gown.
“Good morning,” she said, and brushed his forehead with her lips.
“I’m hungry,” he said, annoyed, “and thirsty.”
“Oh, of course you are,” Mrs. Willard said. “I didn’t expect you to cook something for yourself.”
Her youngest son stood and pushed the chair back. “I’ll be watching TV.”
She put the already full kettle on the stove. Each evening, without exception, she put water into a jug in the fridge and the stainless-steel kettle. That way, if the pipes froze overnight, there would always be a cuppa in the morning. She thought about the social worker’s predictions. This wasn’t going to be easy, but no one knew how difficult it would be for her, and always had been. Life was cruel, delivering her a pathetic spineless husband and a deviant child. If it hadn’t been for the pregnancy she would never have married Geoffrey’s father. He could never cope with a child who was different and left the first chance he got.
Geoffrey had always been different, and no amount of discipline stopped him behaving that way. She would never know what had happened to him in prison, or why he did that vile thing to end up there. Her son always was and always would be evil. There was no other explanation.
And now, after twenty years of respite, he was here again, living with her.
Locating a frying pan in a cupboard beneath the oven, she opened a carton of eggs then went to the fridge for some butter. Suddenly, she became aware that she only knew what Geoff liked as an eighteen-year-old boy. Not a man-as he now was, with stubble for hair and lines etched on his long, angular face. Her child was almost forty-a middle-aged man. At least he still had his pretty blue eyes-a blessing and a curse.
The thought of all those years missing, wasted, brought an ache to her chest. How do you begin to get them back? If only she’d had a normal child.
Now she had to make the most of things, starting with bacon and eggs. She cracked the eggs into the pan as the kettle whistled. Making a pot of tea seemed the only sensible thing to do. She began to wonder whether Geoffrey still drank tea. A quick search through the cupboard made her realize that she hadn’t put coffee on the shopping list for the social worker. What sort of a mother didn’t know what her own child drank? She tried to block out the guilt.
Never mind, she’d make do, just like she always did. And, Lord knows, it had never been easy. She grabbed a spatula from the second drawer and turned over the eggs. She’d make sure he ate something, so she put two pieces of bread, one white, one brown, in the toaster.
Geoffrey reappeared and sniffed the air, without saying a word.
“What would you like to do today? There must be so many things you’ve been wanting to do and see?”
“I want the TV in my room.”
Lillian Willard quietly buttered the toast and put the eggs on top. Her son didn’t thank her. Instead, he shovelled food into his mouth, as though he hadn’t eaten for days. She studied his face-how hard it seemed. His teeth had yellowed and one in the back had either rotted or been knocked out. She hadn’t dared ask how or why he had lost it.
“We can get a small one for there, if you like. Maybe with some of the money you saved. Televisions are a lot cheaper now than they used to be.”
Geoffrey nodded.
“I thought we could go to the main street shops and get you some clothes one day this week. The bus takes you right there. But we don’t have to go today if you don’t want. You might like some time just getting used to the place. At least, that’s what June said.”
“All right,” he replied through a mouthful of egg.
“I’ll just clean up and get dressed, then.” Lillian checked her watch. “If you decide you want to go, we should wait until peak hour’s finished. That way we’ll have less chance of drawing attention to ourselves.”
“Can I watch TV now?”
Before waiting for an answer, Geoffrey hurried out of the kitchen, bumping into Nick in the corridor. His cousin carried a basket of dirty washing.
“I’m just doing a load. Anything you’d like washed?”
“Looks like you’ve already got it all.” Lillian put the frying pan in the sink and dried her hands on her apron. “It’s a godsend having you here after so long.”
The older woman had been relieved when Nick had agreed to move in to keep an eye on Geoffrey. Lillian knew she was no physical match if her son was violent, and Nick would not hesitate to keep Geoffrey in line. With a divorce behind him, her nephew was happy to have free rent for as long as he was needed.
“We modern men are all like this. Just have to train Geoff up a bit and you’ll be laughing.”
Childish giggling emanated from the lounge room.
“Speaking of laughing, what is it your cousin’s watching?”
“Sounds like
Lillian ventured into the lounge room and found her son lying across the recliner chair with a pile of junk mail on the floor. He’d torn out the underwear sections from the Kmart catalogue and lay snickering at the scantily dressed models.
Less than twenty-four hours out of prison and her son was ogling innocent young women. Maybe prison had made him worse.
The thought made her heart palpitate.
5
Exhausted after the late-night rape examination, Anya had to be at court by ten o’clock. This time another young woman needed all the support Anya could muster.
“It’s almost over,” she said, squeezing the teenage girl’s hand. “You’ve come so far. I know it’s not easy, but for your own sake you have to try to keep it together just a bit longer.” Anya stroked the dry, flaking skin, a barometer of the young woman’s level of stress. She’d never seen dermatitis that bad.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Naomi said, releasing Anya’s hand before running to the court toilets. Her mother quickly followed.
Anya could see that the prosecutor, Jennifer Beck, seemed distracted when talking to her assistant counsel. Jennifer excused herself from the conversation and walked the few feet across the gravel drive to Anya.
“We can’t afford for her to lose it now.” She tugged at her bar jacket. “Any hysterics she shows today will just make her look unstable and give the defense the gift they’re after.”
Anya sensed that the usually sympathetic prosecutor was feeling the pressure. Today’s closing argument had to convince the jury that the men on trial had deliberately drugged and raped the young woman.
“She hasn’t got over the cross-examination and knows it doesn’t look good for a conviction.” Anya lowered her voice. “What do you think?”
“If we had more physical evidence this case wouldn’t have been a farce. I’m recommending a review of evidence collection procedures in all SA units. You have to give us more evidence, or we’re telling the community it’s easier to get away with sexual assault than shoplifting.”
