Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

“How violent is he?”

“Punches them in the face when he thinks they’ve seen him. The knife he’s using leaves an impressive bruise on their chests.”

“But he hasn’t used it on them.”

“Only to scratch and frighten.”

“Has he changed his MO? One outside, one inside?”

“Maybe not. They were both attacked near train stations so he may be on foot. They’re both in the same area.”

The detective chewed his gum, seemingly deep in thought.

“Any distinct characteristics?”

“He wears a dark cap, jeans, T-shirt. One mentioned a white hand so he’s probably Caucasian.”

“Then he doesn’t wear gloves?”

The detective delivered a penetrating gaze. He was processing every minute detail.

“Yes, but he has taken them off during the attacks.”

“Interesting. He is careful about leaving evidence, but just has to feel skin once he’s got them under his control. Leave any semen, hairs, fingerprints?”

“Not that I’ve found, but I’ve only had one kit to send off. But here’s the interesting part: he does have this thing he said to both of them: ‘If you can’t be hurt, you can’t be loved.’”

“A penny philosopher.” Hayden continued chewing. “We can rule out Shakespeare and every other genius in town. Obviously fancies himself as smart. Anything found at the house?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“I’ll check it out with crime scene.”

One of the hovering constables waved to the detective and pointed to her watch.

“Thanks for filling me in. I’ll run a check and see if there have been any other similar assaults reported in the area in the last few months. And, if you see any more women…”

“Unless they go to the police, I can’t give you much.”

“Yeah, yeah, but ethically you can ask them whatever you want. Think of yourself as a conduit. I’ll make up a list of questions in case anyone else comes in.”

“I can’t interrogate victims. I’m their advocate, remember?”

“You want this guy off the streets more than any of us. You’ve seen first-hand the damage he does. If no one else goes to the police, you’re the best shot at catching this animal.” He stood up, hitched up his trousers at the waist and grabbed his lecture materials. “If he’s already hitting them, the violence is only going to escalate. The reality of rape never lives up to his fantasy. He’ll be killing before he’s finished.”

Hayden swallowed the chewing gum and headed off to teach the next batch of investigators.

Later that afternoon, Anya pulled intothe preschool car park, barely avoiding a four-wheel drive partly blocking the entrance. Finding a designated place to stop, she checked her watch. A few minutes early shouldn’t matter. It meant more time with Ben. Other mothers milled outside the childproof gate, parading the latest fashions in gym gear. Judging by the perfect make-up, hair and figures, most of the day was spent preening and exercising. Anya wondered if they had trouble living up to their own images.

Inside the gate, she entered the preschool building and did a quick check for her four-year-old.

“Can I help you?” offered a woman wearing a cardboard crown covered in glitter.

“I’ve come to pick up Ben.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hegarty. Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” She sat back down at a small table covered in scrunched-up paper. Three toddlers with busy hands stuck the paper to colored cardboard. “He’s outside, playing with the other boys,” she said. “He’s had a fantastic day.”

Anya didn’t bother to correct the “Mrs. Hegarty,” her former married name, and wondered if a child’s day was ever described as anything other than “fantastic.” Even so, she knew her son enjoyed most of his time at preschool. In the vast outside play area, she scanned the climbing frame, swings, fort and bike-track. In the distance she saw a group of boys playing chase and watched the unmistakable frame of her child, running around, laughing and calling out to the others. She cherished these moments-the ones that most mothers took for granted. Day-to-day things that she rarely got to see, let alone share, like a little boy running as fast as his short legs could manage in the company of friends. No fears, no concerns, just being himself.

She walked over slowly, dodging a tricycle and soccer ball. The boys seemed oblivious as she stood nearby. They paused for a rest.

“What are we gunna do next?” panted the one with the reddest face.

“How about playing ninjas?”

“Can I play?” asked a larger boy.

“No. We don’t want you to play,” Ben announced.

The other boy started to yell, “I wanna play too.”

“No!” Ben stood defiant.

Not sure why he would behave like that, Anya waited until he’d spun around in a fighting pose before she called his name. Ben froze, a guilty look on his face.

Anya moved forward and hugged him. “Hi boys, what are you up to?”

Ben answered, “Playing Jedi knights.” As the six other boys ran off to face some evil character, the boy her son had confronted stood staring.

Ben approached his mother and wrapped both arms tightly around her waist. “Mum, I love you.”

“Love you too.” She knelt down to his eye-level and whispered, “I’ll go inside and get your bag.”

Inside, she found the teacher Ben chatted about most. Miss Celeste was a pretty young woman dressed in bright yellow overalls. Large sparkly spheres hung from her ears. She sat on the floor, singing nursery rhymes with the kids as they picked up pieces of confetti, Lego and other toys.

Anya waited for a break in the song, and Miss Celeste stood up.

“Hi, I just thought I’d ask how Ben’s going, particularly with the other children?”

Miss Celeste’s expression became serious. “I’ve been hoping to speak to you. He’s very social and enjoys playing, but he needs some work with cutting. His scissor-work is behind the others, and it’s very important to work on that for when he goes to school.” She had a look almost of pity on her face.

Anya tried to absorb the wider implication of the problem. “How is he going otherwise?”

“Fine, but we do have to make him come in to do craft. He spends all his time running around with the boys outside. He doesn’t seem interested in the pre-reading and writing activities yet. But boys are often slower in that part of their development.” The teacher waved goodbye to one of the other children and returned to tidying up the collage pieces strewn on the floor.

Anya bent down to help.

“Maybe he prefers to read at home.”

By the look on her face, this was news to Miss Celeste. She brushed some hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Do you sit and read with him?”

Anya nodded.

“Little boys always want to please their mothers and will go to great lengths to get one-on-one time with them. You are not living with your husband, I gather.”

“No, but-”

Miss Celeste smiled. “All parents have great hopes for their children. Here we let them learn at their own pace. Ben is behaving as we’d expect any four-year-old to, except for his craft skills.”

Suddenly, Ben appeared from his game, short of breath, and pulled at Anya’s shirt.

“Come on, Mum, let’s go!”

From someone who wanted to stay, he had fast developed an urgent need to leave. Miss Celeste said goodbye to him by name, and Anya began to get the message. Ben didn’t want her speaking to the teachers.

On the way home, they stopped at a park and the two climbed out. Ben ran toward the swings and clambered onto one. Anya pushed him from behind.

“Hey, Speedie, how do you like preschool?”