Without Consent (8 page)

Luke stood to the side of the window, flipped open his mobile phone and dialled emergency. “We need an ambulance. An elderly woman’s been knocked out by a rock thrown through the window…Of course it’s a fucking emergency! She’s just sort of lying there, not moving. Hang on…” He turned to Nick. “They want to know, does she have a pulse?”

“Yeah, but it’s weak. And tell them to send police, too.”

“Hello? Her pulse is weak and there’s trouble outside. We need the police. There’s a crowd outside and, oh shit, they’re fucking angry.”

The crowd began to chant, “Get Willard out. Get Willard out.”

Someone with a loudspeaker shouted, “Leave our neighborhood tonight. We don’t want sex offenders near our kids.”

Geoff crawled to the back door. He wanted to protect Caesar.

“Come here, boy.” He opened the screen door but the labrador pup didn’t move.

“Quick boy, get inside,” he urged, but Caesar stayed asleep. Geoff clambered across to where the dog lay and put a hand on his back. That’s when he knew something was wrong. Caesar wasn’t breathing. Putting his ear to the dog’s chest, Geoff couldn’t hear or feel a thing, but he could smell the vomit. It was all around the dog.

Beside him lay a stinking piece of meat. Caesar wasn’t sick. He’d been baited and poisoned.

“NO! You bastards!” he screamed.

Luke hurried to his side. “Oh Jesus,” he said, pulling Geoff inside the back door to the laundry.

Geoff paced, his eyes welling with tears. He punched the inside wall, puncturing the plaster.

“The police will be here any second,” Luke offered. “You’d better get out of here.”

Geoff didn’t acknowledge his cousin’s friend. He was too angry. All he wanted to do was kill the bastard who did this. Fucking coward, picking on an innocent dog.

He ground his thumb into his palm. What the fuck was happening?

Everything was going wrong. His mum was lying inside bleeding, his dog was dead. And it was his fault. He had to get away.

He took off out the back door, scaled the back fence, and ran. As fast as his legs would allow.

Melanie Havelock couldn’t believe her
luck. Landing an advertising job so quickly with the company she wanted to work for was a dream come true. She practically skipped home from the station, for the first time noticing how fragrant the gardenias were at this time of night. After a celebratory drink with her best girlfriend, she had caught a late train, all the while planning her career. First thing, it would mean a whole new wardrobe. Nothing too conservative, maybe something a little funky. And new shoes, too. Lots of high heels. After all, she was an advertising consultant.

How good did that sound?

Unable to stop smiling, she cut through the park, even saying hello to a jogger. She crossed the road, and for the first time felt the humidity. Perspiration beneath her new suit made her slow a little as she turned the corner into her street and wondered how she’d break the news to her mother. A job would mean moving out, new friends and holidays away from the family. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, interrupting her thoughts. She pulled her keys from her bag and fumbled with the old wooden door. It had stuck again and needed a bigger push than usual.

“Mum, I’m home and I’ve got great news,” she said, dropping her keys on the table in the hall.

“Hello?”

Silence.

She threw her bag on the kitchen bench and found the note.

Her sister was studying, Mum was at work and her father’s plane had been delayed. He wouldn’t be back until the morning. Dinner—leftover pizza—was in the fridge. All it needed was ten minutes on medium heat in the oven.

The one time she had brilliant news and there was no one home to celebrate. Just a note. Typical Mum, no mention of the interview, just a lesson in how to reheat food. How did she think teenagers survived?

Melanie slipped the pizza into the microwave and pressed three minutes. With the house to herself, she flicked on the lights in the main living area, along with the air-conditioner, stereo and TV.

Being alone had an upside. She could have more than one appliance on without anyone carrying on about the cost. “Do you think we own shares in the electricity company?” her father would always say.

A moment later, the air-conditioner, microwave, stereo and TV clicked off. She checked. Even the alarm clock in her room was powerless. At least the lights stayed on.

The safety switch must have triggered, she thought. With the porch light on, she went out the front door and around the side of the house to the fuse box. Lifting the metal lid, she flicked on the kill-switch and the air-conditioning kicked back in. Once inside again, she decided to unplug the stereo just in case that was what had overloaded the system.

As she reached down, a rubber glove covered her mouth and her knees buckled with a weight from behind.

“This isn’t funny!” she said, grabbing for her boyfriend’s hand.

“Don’t turn around or think about screaming.” The voice was not familiar. Without meaning to move her head, she saw the knife blade just before it stung her cheek.

Heart drilling in her chest, she struggled for air. Panic rose like a tidal wave.

God, was she about to die?

“Don’t hurt me,” she mumbled. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Tell me where your money is and I won’t.”

The hand around her mouth loosened.

He just wants money, that’s all.
Melanie felt her body relax a little. She pointed at the kitchen.

“I don’t have much in my purse, just a few dollars until I get paid.”

“You do as I say and I’ll be out of here real quick.”

She turned this time to see a black cap covering most of his face and felt the knife at her throat.

“Don’t look at me!”

“I didn’t see—”

Suddenly, he had her off balance in a headlock. He tightened his grip around her neck and the knife hovered in front of her eyes.

She could feel his hot breath in her ear, deeper and more rapid as she fought to breathe.

“Where’s your bed?”

“I don’t have any jewellery.”

No answer.

She struggled to get her balance, but her leather-soled shoes offered no resistance on the tiled floor as he dragged her into the main bedroom. With one swift move, he threw her on to her back, pinned her arms with his knees and pushed her face to the side. The knife moved back to her throat.

“Don’t look at me!” His free fist exploded across her face.

Dazed by the pain in her nose and cheek, Melanie took a moment to focus.

“My—my boyfriend—he’ll be home any minute.”

“Fucking liar.” With a quick movement, he ripped open her shirt and pushed up her bra. The gloved fingers exposed her flesh then dug into her, kneading and squeezing until it hurt. Unable to inhale properly, she didn’t dare struggle. She stared at the floral curtain hanging over the locked window.

He snapped off the rubber gloves and she saw a flash of white as he took the knife in one hand while the other groped at his trousers. He took some weight off her arms, but not enough for her to get free. Too scared to look, she thought he pulled out a condom and tore off the wrapper.

“God, no, please don’t. I’ve never done this before.”

“Shut your filthy mouth!”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

He ripped off her trousers and panties then lifted his hips and lowered his jeans. First he stuck himself in her mouth, kneeling on her elbows the whole time.

She gagged and tried to pull away. He just got harder. Then he stopped and moved down between her legs.

Bending forward, he whispered in her ear, “Relax. If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.”

With that, she felt pain shoot from her thighs through to her back. It felt like she was being ripped open, but the knife remained pressed at her neck. Sobbing, she thought she’d pass out, but closed her eyes and thought of her mother’s grief if anything happened to her. After a few minutes, he stopped and pressed his face into her chest.

She could smell his cheap aftershave and mint breath.

Instead of leaving, he rolled her onto her stomach and raped her again, pressing her face into the pillow. This time she thrashed her head, gasping for air. She couldn’t feel the knife but knew it was still there. It had to be. The pain kept on, but now it was as though it was happening to someone else.

Overcome by a strange numbness, she felt as though God was saving her from any more physical pain.

If she did what he said, he’d let her go. She hadn’t seen his face, just felt his weight. And his smell.

She wanted to gag. When he’d finished, she closed her eyes and waited to die.

He threw the bedclothes over her limp body and lifted her head by the roots of her hair, waving the blade across her throat.

“I’m going to get something to eat. Don’t think about running away. If you try, I’ll slice you, starting with your eyes and nose. They won’t even be able to identify your body.”

Grabbing at the covers, she slowly lifted them up to her shoulders as her entire body shook. The window was key-locked. He’d see her if she tried to leave the bedroom. Too paralyzed with fear to move, all she could do was listen. The fridge door opened, followed by the clink of bottles.

Oh God, he’s staying. He’s getting something to eat!

After what seemed like hours, he came back and sat on the bed.

“Don’t look at me.”

This time his voice sounded calm, which scared her more. For sure, he was getting ready to kill her. He pulled off the bedclothes and stared at her half-naked body, twisting the knife in his hand.

Then he rolled her onto her back and pressed the blade hard against her breast. He unzipped his pants, climbed on top and raped her again. This time the smell of beer and garlic doused her with each grunt.

When he’d finished, he made her take a shower in the en suite and forced her to scrub all over.

“Now, where’s that handbag?” he said, while the shower still ran.

When he returned, through a misted screen-door she saw him shove something into his back pocket.

Cat-like, he pounced and opened the screen-door, pulling the cap further over his eyes. “I have to go now, but I’ll be watching from around the corner.”

Ashamed and still afraid, she tried to shield herself from his burning stare and turned away. “Please don’t hurt me any more.”

“Listen, bitch. I know everything about you. If you call the police or tell anyone, I’ll be back. If you try to hide, I’ll find you. And next time, I’ll finish what we started.”

Anya stared at the Department of Health
directive that instructed all physicians to photograph assault victims on presentation and during examination. The accompanying consent was in addition to the other two forms that victims had to sign before evidence could be collected. No wonder victims’ groups demanded better treatment.

Anya wished she’d argued better at the meeting. Survivors were different from murder victims in two important ways. Unlike homicide victims, they had a choice in whether or not to come forward. Secondly, they remained alive and vulnerable, often feeling as though the offender had committed “unfinished” murder.

Mary Singer entered the tearoom.

“Thanks for coming in again. The poor girl seems more terrified about how her mother will take it. Apparently, her mum was mugged last year and has been over-the-top protective of her kids ever since.”

Anya could relate to that. Having a four-year-old son was worrying enough. She tested the charge on the digital camera and put it on the trolley outside the examination suite.

Inside the room sat a straight-backed young woman, with mascara smudged around her eyes and a large swollen bruise on the left side of her face. She wasn’t crying now.

“I’m Anya, the unit’s doctor.”

“Melanie,” the woman uttered with a hoarse voice.

Mary Singer sat in the armchair next to Anya’s.

“I’m here for two main reasons,” Anya explained. “The most important thing is to look after you; to make sure you are safe and all right. The second reason is to conduct a forensic exam, but only if you want it. I won’t do it unless you consent to it. You do have power and choices here tonight. Your attacker may have tried to take them away from you, but you are in control now.”

Melanie looked intensely at Anya. “What does a forensic exam involve?”

“An examination to see whether your attacker transferred any DNA material from his body to yours. That means taking cotton swabs of areas he might have left some of his ‘genetic fingerprint,’ if you like. That happens if he licked, bit or kissed you, or even pressed hard on your skin with his fingers. It can also be left in the form of semen, hairs, or if you scraped his skin with your fingernails.”

“I think he used a condom the first time. It sounds stupid, but I’m not sure about the other times.” Her voice trailed to almost a whisper.

“Nothing you say will sound stupid. You’d be amazed how many people don’t know if a condom was used. How could you when you weren’t able to see?”

“The police already know I was attacked. I didn’t know what to do, so I called emergency. A policewoman brought me straight here and said I’d have to be examined.”

Anya referred to her clipboard and booklet. “There is no ‘have to’ here. I won’t do anything without your permission, and you can change your mind at any time at all. But, if you think you might want to make a police statement, it’s better to look for any forensic evidence now rather than later. If you go home and decide you don’t want the police involved, we can dispose of the evidence. If you agree to my collecting evidence, you have time to decide whether or not you want it handed over to the police. I can’t do anything with it unless I have your written permission.”

“I’ve never even had a Pap smear.”

“I wouldn’t do that tonight, but it’s important to check you for injuries and treat you if necessary. We need to talk about the risks of pregnancy and infections as well.”

Melanie bit her bottom lip.

“If I let you examine me, is that all?”

Mary Singer cleared her throat. “We offer you medical treatment and ongoing counselling whether or not you have an examination. There’s no pressure either way.”

“It might help if you can tell me how you were attacked, and where you were hurt,” Anya added.

Melanie paused. “I just got home after catching a late train. The power went off and I checked the fuse box and came back inside. That’s when he grabbed me from behind. I thought it was my boyfriend kidding around. Then the knife dug into my face.”

Anya noticed a small wound on the right cheek and a stream of blood heading toward her chin. She was upright when the knife pierced the skin.

Melanie continued talking, and, taking brief notes, Anya documented key points of the story.

Anya asked, “Have you had any bleeding since the assault?”

“Kind of like a heavy period.”

“It’s important that we look at that, to make sure you haven’t got any damage to your bladder or bowel as well.”

“I didn’t fight him. I was so scared, I couldn’t move.” Melanie hung her head. “It was like being paralyzed.”

“Whatever you did during the attack was the right thing,” Mary emphasized. “You survived. Don’t ever forget that. You did the right things.”

The young woman gazed at the pot plant on the coffee table and seemed to drift into a daze.

“I once saw one of those wildlife shows where a surfer was attacked by a shark. He said that out of the corner of his eye he saw something gray, then felt a tug on his leg. When he looked down he saw blood in the water but didn’t know he was missing half his leg. It didn’t even hurt. It was as though the first bite wiped out all feeling of fear and pain.” Her voice faltered and her hand dabbed the swollen cheek. “He paddled to the shore and didn’t collapse until someone helped him onto the beach.” Her voice became raspier, but she kept talking. “Maybe it’s nature’s way of trying to help animals that can’t save themselves.”

The calm facade started to slip. She bit her lip again. “That’s kind of how I felt after he started to rape me the first time.”

Melanie Havelock sat forward and stared at the pot plant for a good few minutes before making her decision. “I survived for a reason. I want to have the forensic exam.”

Anya admired the strength of this woman. She should do well with support and counselling.

After signing the consent form, Melanie asked about the other forms. Anya explained what they meant, and how she documented the findings. “This last one,” she added, “is a request to photograph your injuries, and what you look like now.”

Melanie sat back and crossed her arms. “Why do you need photos? My doctor always draws stuff.”

“If you decide you want a police investigation, photos may be helpful. At least of your injuries.”

“Would they hide my face?”

Mary shook her head. “No, they would need to be identifiable.”

“I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. God, what if someone I know saw them?”

Anya acted quickly to reassure her. “It’s fine, only people concerned with the case will see them.”

“You mean like the Paris Hilton video?”

“It’s your choice. We don’t need to take any photos. It won’t affect anything we’ve discussed at all.”

Mary glanced at her colleague. “I’m a witness to that. No photography.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Melanie announced, standing. “Where do I go now?”

The phone in the room buzzed and Mary answered it.

“Melanie, your mother’s outside. What would you like to do?”

Tears filled her eyes. “Can she hold my hand?”

Mary moved to open the door. “Sure, if that’s what you’d like.”

Anya tore open the bag of the assault kit and began labelling the collection vials. She pretended not to notice the mother and daughter standing together.

“I’m afraid you can’t hug your daughter until we’ve collected the evidence,” Mary tactfully explained.

“I know.” The mother moved some hair out of her child’s eyes. “You’re in very good hands here.” She turned toward Anya.

She seemed familiar, but Anya couldn’t place her.

“I don’t expect you to remember,” she said. “I looked a lot different then.”

“Gloria Havelock.” Anya smiled, out of genuine respect. “Now I remember. Very clearly.”

How could she forget? It was the first time Anya had been on call for the unit, and the night she had first worked with Mary Singer. Gloria was lucky to have survived a vicious assault. Frightened for her family, the mother behaved stoically and did not want anyone knowing about the rape. Instead, she wanted them all to think she had been mugged.

“Ma, how do you know the doctor?”

Gloria turned to her daughter. “We can talk about that later. Right now, we need to look after you.”

Anya suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

What were the chances that the women were both victims of random attacks?