Kathryn Fox - Without Consent

Ben had moved on to a round table with animal bones and was assembling some kind of skeleton. He looked up with a cheeky grin, waved to his mother and continued building. A little girl about the same age sat on the other side of the table. The pair had already struck up a conversation, as kids are prone to do.

Anya admired the room’s brilliant design. Parents could be in one section and still keep an eye on their children without being on top of them. The long warehouse-style facility had been tastefully designed with a row of overhead spotlights shining from a drop rail, giving the place a studious but relaxed feel. One side of the room was filled with bookshelves, with the space divided by multiple stations and comfy-looking lounges.

It was the sort of place Anya could spend hours in, and, thanks to Ben, often did.

“Did you get the original sample sent to the laboratories?” she asked, keen to go and play with her son.

“To be honest, I was surprised it had been kept, but it arrived from the archive yesterday. Seems all those years ago some lawyer brought it in with an explanation of where it had been found. No one at the lab knew what to do with it and they never heard from the lawyer again. It was dated and has been filed in our archives ever since. Good thing we’re all hoarders in this business.”

A group of children came over and jostled to see what the man in the white coat was doing. Pretty quickly, they became distracted by a game someone else was playing with a turtle shell. They squealed with enthusiasm.

“How will you get a sample?” she asked.

Tim studied every aspect of the specimen. “There’s still dried meat inside the feet, mouth, lips. Marrow in the bones as well. We could take cartilage from the ears but the easiest way is to cut a small piece out of one of the toes. You’ll never notice. Part of the left back foot is already missing. Probably dropped off in the freezer.”

Maybe it wasn’t just pathologists who were pragmatic about deceased parts, she thought.

“How long before you get a result?”

“Should be in a few days.”

He disappeared and returned with a scalpel and some fine scissors. Part of a back toe was collected along with a scraping of skin from under the belly.

Anya thanked him and wandered off to find Ben, who had moved on to a computer.

“Don’t forget your friend here,” Tim called.

She rolled her eyes and rewrapped the dog in the rug. Brown-Eye was going to be with them for the day, it seemed.

As Ben played a puzzle game about rainforests, she thought about Nick Hudson. Could he have been so casual about Eileen Randall if he had killed her? He obviously despised the girl and had no remorse for her death. She looked at Brown-Eye, who was propped on the desk.

Pretty soon they’d know whether the dog that never left Nick’s side had been at the crime scene that night.

The following morning, Ben was up athis usual six o’clock and Anya struggled to adjust to the early start. Seeing him every second weekend made her want to make up for lost time, but trying to cram two weeks into two days was at times almost too intense for both of them. She constantly tried to find the right balance and treat Ben like he was with her all the time.

The gentle knock on the front door made her flatten her hair with her hands and grab a windcheater from the lounge room to cover her pajamas.

Standing on the doorstep was a weary-looking Peter Latham.

“It’s early, but I was on a walk and saw your lights on.”

Never a fan of exercise, Peter maintained his ideal weight by skipping meals, usually unintentionally.

“We’re up,” she said, hugging him. “Come on in.”

For a moment, Peter looked uncomfortable until he saw Ben run from the kitchen and launch himself into his godfather’s arms.

“How’s my favorite little man?” he said, dropping to one knee. He was one of the few people who got down to Ben’s level to hug.

“The way you looked around when you came in-don’t tell me you thought I was entertaining a man?” Anya teased, unsure whether she should be flattered or insulted. “I’m doing microwaved scrambled eggs if you’d like to join us.”

“I’d love to, but only if I’m not interrupting. I know how precious your time is together.”

“Please stay, Peter,” Ben said. “I can show you how to do a noisy trick.” He released the hug and ran his hand under his shirt, cupping it under his armpit. With a few levers of the other arm, he demonstrated.

“Wow, I was seven before I could do that,” Peter said, laughing.

“With all he can do, he’s proudest of armpit noises,” Anya said, shuffling in her slippers to the kitchen to the strains of Ben’s latest performance trick. In a way, she was proud of his boyish crazes. The thing she feared was having a child who felt socially inept. That was what had crippled her so much in her teenage years. Behaving like a four-year-old was what he was supposed to do, without inhibition.

Whisking eggs, she thought for a moment of Geoff Willard and wondered if his mother had harbored the same fears when her son was a child. She found it difficult to understand the woman’s reaction to the possibility that Geoff might have been innocent, as though the thought had never occurred to her before.

She added a little milk to the glass bowl and put it in the microwave. Two minutes on medium and she’d check it again. Meanwhile, she made the toast. The smell of bread cooking on a Sunday morning made her want to gorge herself. Today was no exception.

In the lounge room, Peter and Ben were competing for the better body trick. Ben could roll his tongue, but the more senior of the two could wiggle his ears, a talent that Ben immediately tried to mimic.

The microwave beeped and Anya stirred the sloppy mixture.

“Couple more minutes and we’ll be ready,” she called to the now silent pair. Wiggling ears took intense concentration. She’d have to remember that if she ever wanted Ben to be quiet for a few minutes.

“Smells yummy.” Ben appeared and sat at the table.

Anya placed knives and forks and dished up the toast and eggs.

Peter had arrived just in time for a large pot of coffee. After the exhausting week, Anya would probably drink it all day. She poured two cups.

Handing Peter two plates, she took the cups and they sat together. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly before flicking to her son. “Careful, Ben, it’s hot.”

“I know,” he answered, blowing on the first mouthful.

Peter sighed. “I saw Alf Carney last night. He’s taken it pretty hard.”

That was hardly surprising, given he had just been deemed incompetent and could even face criminal charges if the police felt he had fabricated evidence.

They ate in silence until Ben had finished. “Thanks, Mum. Can I watch cartoons, please?”

“Of course you can,” she said, and kissed his forehead as he squeezed past.

“What’s Alf planning to do?”

“He’s talking about suing for defamation, but I think he’ll change his mind once he’s cooled off. He’s threatened it before when someone questioned his decisions, but has never followed through.”

Anya wondered if that was how he’d got away with incompetence for so long. Threatening anyone who questioned him with legal action was one way of stopping people challenging him or going public with their concerns. Without open discussion and peer review, incompetence could go unchecked indefinitely.

“How could he have continued working for so long? He must have known that his decisions were way off-base.”

Peter chased a piece of egg around the plate with his fork. “He suffered depression for a very long time. He’s getting help now, but that probably affected some of his decision-making.”