Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

Putting the novel aside, she closed her eyes and drifted into a relaxing state with the sun warming her face and legs. Something about the ocean made everything seem insignificant, except Eileen Randall. The thought kept entering her mind. If she had been floating in the water, that would explain the clean feet.

Why would Willard confess to a crime he hadn’t committed? It wouldn’t be the first time the police had intimidated a suspect. And the emotions of the local community and police that night would have been feverishly high.

What was the name of the show Charlie Boyd mentioned? The seventh something. Damn. Anya hated not remembering a name. She grabbed her laptop from inside and connected to the Internet via the phone line. Within minutes she’d located a television guide on a nostalgia site. On the evening of the murder twenty years ago, at 11:30 p.m., a comedy sketch show called The Eleventh Hour was shown. It had been cancelled not long after, and faded into obscurity with so many other failed series, according to the website.

Willard had been right. If he had such an amazing memory for shows, he might have remembered some of it. Or was that expecting too much? She wondered if she could recall any of the sketches from revues during her university days. She could remember the funniest ones, but something from a weekly TV show? Only one came to mind. A brilliant impersonation of Brains from the Thunderbird s on her favorite show of the time, the D-Generation. Maybe Geoff Willard could come up with the same sort of thing.

She thought of phoning Veronica, but decided to wait to speak to her tomorrow. It was probably tennis time, anyway, she thought.

“Excuse me, are you Doctor Crichton?”

Anya turned and saw a woman about her age standing in harem pants, a tie-dyed shirt and a straw hat. She carried the card Charlie Boyd had taken. Anya wondered whether this was the rape victim he had mentioned.

“Yes. Please, come up.”

The woman slowly climbed the stairs and took off her hat.

“My name’s Dell. Sergeant Boyd told me you were here asking questions. He assured me you’re who you say you are.”

Charlie had obviously gone to the station to run a check on her. Fair enough, Anya thought. She explained her role as a forensic physician and the need to find out whether this was the same attacker who was assaulting women in the northwest of Sydney.

“Would you like something to eat or drink?” Anya suddenly felt awkward. She didn’t feel in control outside her normal surroundings. This wasn’t a consult but a conversation, she told herself.

“Tea. Weak, black, thanks.”

Anya boiled the kettle and used the same teabag for both cups.

“It’s so nice on the balcony,” she said to the visitor. “Do you mind?”

Dell looked inside then put her hat back on. “I prefer to be outside, where there are people.”

Mid-afternoon meant the beach was at its most crowded. The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, as they watched the waves approach and recede.

Dell held the cup between both hands and studied the contents. “Have you seen many rape victims?”

“Too many.”

“How do they react to having been through it?”

Anya took a sip. “It varies. Everybody’s different. Some are calm straight after, others are distraught and fragile. It can depend, too, on whether or not they knew their attacker. They all seem to go through a grieving process.” Steam floated above the meniscus of tea. “Healing takes a long time.”

“It took me years. I still have flashbacks to that night.”

“Did you get counselling?”

The woman curled her top lip. “Not around here. Back then, most people thought of counsellors and social workers as feminist radicals who’d created an industry for themselves. You just shut up and put up.”

“That must have been really difficult. You must have been so young.”

Dell looked toward the water. “It probably would’ve been harder if I’d told people. They also thought rape meant you’d led a boy on and then changed your mind when it was too late. You’ve got to remember that this is basically a mining community. They should have called the place Nickel Bay.”

Anya had seen the signs for the nickel mine on the drive in. “So most of the men were miners?”

“It’s always been a small group of locals and a large transient population. The shift work meant the men could surf on their days off.”

The breeze picked up and almost blew Dell’s hat off. Anya studied the woman who spoke so calmly about the past. She had long fingers and odd splashes of paint on her shirt and near her wedding ring.

“There were a few rapes back then, but the police always put it down to the itinerant mine workers, never the locals. When I went to report my assault, Charlie Boyd assured me that Geoff Willard would be sorted out, unofficially, of course.”

The time seemed as appropriate as possible to discuss what happened that night. “Do you mind if I ask you about your attack? What happened?”

Dell took a deep breath, as though she’d been postponing this moment.

“It was a few weeks before Eileen was killed. I was walking home after spending the evening listening to music at a girlfriend’s place. It was probably about half past nine. I remember I had to be home by ten on a school night. Suddenly, I got knocked to the ground and he was on top of me. He pulled my top over my head, so I didn’t really see him, but he kept saying things. Like he knew I wanted it. How he’d watched me. From what I’ve read, most of them say things like that.” She held the cup in both hands. “He had trouble keeping his erection and pushed harder, telling me it was my fault.”

“Did he hit you at all?”

“No, but he pushed pretty hard. I told him it was hurting and begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t.” She put her head down. “I wasn’t a virgin, but it still hurt.”

Anya shook her head. Even women perpetuated the myth that non-virgins experienced less pain and trauma during a rape. One of the worst cases she had seen was a prostitute who’d been assaulted by a client.

“What happened next?”

“He got off me, told me he’d kill me if I said anything to anyone. He ordered me not to move, then he was gone.” She took another deep breath.

“I was so scared. I told Mum, but she didn’t want Dad to know. Said he was under enough stress at work. I stayed in bed for a couple of days and Mum just told people I had the flu. After that, I got used to not telling people. The only other person who knows is Sergeant Boyd. I told him before Eileen’s funeral.”

Anya instinctively reached over and placed her hand on the woman’s forearm. After twenty years, this victim was finally able to tell someone without wondering whether she’d be blamed for what had happened.

Something bothered Anya about Dell’s story. “You didn’t see the man’s face, but Charlie Boyd said you identified Geoff Willard as your attacker.”

“When I saw Geoff on the news for killing Eileen, I just knew it was him.” She put the cup down on the table. “I guess I was lucky.”

“Did you see his hands, whether there were any marks on them?”

“Sorry, but I couldn’t see.”

“Did he say something to you about being hurt and loved?”

“No. He didn’t say much.”

“If there’s anything else that you remember, anything at all about that night, please call me. It’s very important.”

Dell stood and shook Anya’s hand. “Thank you for listening. I know it’s been a long time, but it feels good to finally be believed.”

Anya realized that rather than stirring up pain of the past, their conversation had been cathartic for this woman. For more than half of her life, Dell had kept a painful secret. Maybe now she could gain some degree of closure.