Without Consent

To the doctors, police, lawyers and health care workers who work with victims of sexual assault.

Temporarily blinded by the flashing
bulbs, Geoffrey Willard stepped through the gate. Immediately, the onslaught began.

“Over here,” a man called.

“No, this way,” cried another.

“Geoff! What’s it like to be free?”

A microphone lurched forward and grazed his chin. The impact caught him off balance.

“Do you think you’re rehabilitated?”

Cameras click-clicked.

“Mate, look this way! Show us those baby blues.”

“Sunny, over here!”

Geoffrey instinctively shielded his eyes, the ones that caused inmates to nickname him Sundance, after Robert Redford, only before he turned old and wrinkly
.
With his forefinger, he touched a bit of newly shaved scalp and took half a pace backward, wishing he could retreat to the safety of prison.

More flashes exploded in the twilight. Not knowing which way to turn, he hid his face with his knapsack. What felt like a fist plunged into his side. As he pulled away with the pain, someone shoved from the other side.

The prison guard held out a baton and opened a narrow pathway. “Come on, back off. Give the guy a break.”

“Yeah, like he did for Eileen Randall?”

Geoff tensed his considerable shoulders and clenched his fists.

“Everyone settle down,” the officer warned. “We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

More cameras fired and someone lunged forward and yanked at his pocket, almost pulling the trousers down in the process. He didn’t even see her face, just a mop of dark shiny hair. Shielding his eyes from a spotlight coming from where they were headed, he called out, “Someone make them go away.”

“We’ll take it from here,” boomed a deep voice. “Car’s waiting.” Geoffrey saw two men in suits holding back the throng. They looked like cops.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said.

“This is for your own protection,” the deep voice growled. This man sounded even angrier than the others.

Suddenly, Geoff felt a whack on his back and stumbled, landing with a thud on both knees. A boot quickly caught his right thigh. The tattered knapsack fell just out of reach.

Bodies and legs surged forward. He could barely breathe.

“Bring back the death penalty!” a woman screamed, and a cheer went out.

Hands dragged him to his feet and forced him, limping, to a white sedan. The door opened from inside and Geoffrey felt a sweaty weight on his crown, shoving him into the back seat. The bag of special belongings followed. The door slammed and he felt safe—like a fish in its bowl. Not safe enough, though, to show his face.

“Stay down,” the huge man beside him growled through closed teeth and swiftly clipped Geoff on the right ear. “And put this on.”

A black cap struck his face.

The front doors slammed and the car screeched away before anyone had time to put on a seatbelt.

“It’s our job to take you to a safe house,” the ear-clipper said.

“Are you taking me to see Mum?” Geoff’s ear burned with pain as he put on the baseball cap.

“The press found out where your Mummy Dearest lived and beat the community into a frenzy. Seems no one wants you in their neighborhood.”

“Is my mum okay?”

“Fellas, Mumma’s boy is all upset,” the driver sniped.

Geoffrey plucked at his trousers, provided by the social worker for his first day of freedom. They were far too loose around the waist and thighs. “Stop making fun of me! Stop it!” He covered his ears, and started humming.

The suit in the front passenger seat turned around, red-faced. “Listen you motherfucker!” His nostrils got bigger and a thin top lip disappeared. “If it were up to me, I’d have let that mob tear you to shreds. Now, shut the fuck up!”

Geoffrey kept his ears covered but stopped humming. He didn’t like these men. They were assholes.

“Reporters two cars back,” the driver announced. “White van and a blue hatchback. Hang on.”

The car braked at an amber light then sped through it, turning with a skid into a side street. Geoffrey sat in silence as the car weaved through traffic, like something out of a TV cop show. He didn’t recognize this area with tall buildings and people everywhere. It was nothing like the old home in Fisherman’s Bay. No sand, no water and no trees.
This place sucks
.

He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and fumbled for the lighter.

“Not in here, you don’t.” The hand next to him snatched and crushed the last of Geoffrey’s nicotine supply. “Looks like we lost them,” the man added, peering out the back.

The car felt hot and stuffy, like solitary confinement, but Geoff didn’t dare open the window. He thought about his mother. She hadn’t made the trip to visit last week. She’d said she was getting things ready. He began to grind his thumb along the palm of his other hand, over and over again.

He wasn’t supposed to get out until tomorrow, but this afternoon an officer had ordered him to get his things and see the social worker. No one ever explained why. He didn’t even get to say goodbye to his friends, the blokes who’d kept an eye out for him for so long. His thumb moved faster and deeper. Who were all those people outside the prison and why were they all so angry? It was just like in Fisherman’s Bay before he went to jail, only he had known most of them back then.

After a long time, the car slowed outside a row of weatherboard houses. They drove past then did a U-turn and parked in the driveway of a gray house with a dead lawn at the front. A lady with streaky brown hair in a long ponytail came out and opened the car door.

“Hello, Geoffrey, I’m June Bonython, a friend of your mum’s. Best not be seen hanging around out here too long.”

The woman sounded kind—nothing like the dickhead police.

“She’s waiting inside.”

Geoffrey clutched his canvas knapsack and scrambled out of the car. Both legs cramped but he couldn’t wait to get away from his captors. The woman put her hand gently on his back and looked around as they went inside. She made him a bit nervous.

The pair entered, and to Geoff’s relief he saw his mum stand up, straighten out her crisp floral apron and walk slowly toward him. She looked old, really old, and shuffled more than before. Different from how she did when she came to visit. But, he thought, she usually sat down in the prison courtyard and didn’t leave until he’d been taken back to the unit.

He didn’t know what to say so he removed his cap, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Lillian’s arms remained rigid by her side.

“I’ll pop the kettle on, then,” she said, breaking the embrace with a pat on Geoffrey’s arm. “And you’ll be growing that hair right back.”

Out of the kitchen stepped Nick Hudson, Lillian’s brother’s son. With a giant grin, he made up for his aunt’s coldness.

“Welcome home, mate!” Two muscled arms grabbed the newcomer, slapping his sides with considerable force. “You’ve been working out a fair bit by the looks of it. Check out those lats!”

Geoff hugged his favorite cousin and hung on tightly.

“I’d have put up balloons but I ran out of time,” Nick said, letting go. “You still like balloons, don’t you, Geoff?”

Geoffrey nodded, unsure whether anyone would make fun of him if he admitted it. So he chose the moment to announce, “They call me Sunny.”

Everyone stayed quiet, as if something were going to happen. Geoffrey replaced the cap and studied the floral carpet, worn thin to brown strands in front of the lounge. He always noticed floors. They were more interesting than lots of people, and no one bothered him whenever he looked down. Not watching had saved his life at least once in jail.

Miss Bonython smiled. “How about a tour of the place? I’ll show you where everything is. We had to organize alternative accommodation at short notice, once the press found out where you’d be living. At least here the toilet and bathroom are separate. Nice and close to your bedroom.”

From the corridor, the sight of a bright blue toilet seat made him chuckle. The towel next to the yellowish hand-basin had frilly lace on it.

“Where’s the paper towels?”

“What do you mean?” his mother asked from behind the procession.

“To wipe my hands on. I always use paper towels.”

“We use proper towels here, Geoffrey.”

“I always use paper.” He began to rub a thumb along his palm. “I
always
use paper.”

Miss Bonython touched his back. “No problem, Sunny, we’ll get some for you.”

In the next room, a colored quilt lay on an old-fashioned wooden bed. In between two shelves at the head was a panel of white glass with a switch in front.

Geoff reached over and clicked the light on and off, on and off. A big wooden wardrobe covered part of a brown stain on the carpet. The whole space was huge, but the best thing had to be the window. It had a view of the neighbors’ paling fence. Even better, it was open, with no bars. Fresh air and the sound of children playing could get through. He hoped there were kids next door.

“What do you reckon?” Nick slapped him on the back again. “Once you put your own stuff in, it’ll feel more like home.”

Geoffrey swallowed. “It’s good.”

The tour finished with Nick’s bedroom. On the other side of the corridor was a pink room. He knew better than to go in there. His mother would never allow it. Besides, the curtains were all closed on the front side of the house and it smelt musty. It had that old-people smell that reminded him of Grandma—before she got sick and died.

“Smoke?” Nick pulled out a brand-new pack and tipped out two cigarettes. Using one match, he lit the first, then handed the second to his cousin.

After bumming the light, Geoffrey inhaled deeply and blew a series of smoke rings through his mouth.

The kettle boiled and June Bonython excused herself to help with the tea.

“So where’s Brown-Eye?” Geoff asked.

“Geez,” Nick said, “he died years ago.”

“No one told me.” Geoff took a long drag. “He was like your shadow.”

“In a way, he still is.” Nick laughed heartily. “Had the ugly mongrel stuffed for posterity.”

“Right,” was all Geoffrey could think of to say, and he stared back down at the floor.

“Hey.” Nick clapped and flicked the hair from his eyes. “Got a surprise for you, in the backyard. Want to see?”

“Sure.”

They passed the inside laundry and opened a screen door that led to a small grassed yard. Attached to the clothesline, a golden labrador puppy strained at his lead.

“Meet Caesar,” Nick announced. “He’s all yours.”

Geoffrey turned around to see Miss Bonython arrive with two full cups of tea.

“Is he shitting me?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “This is your pup. Donated by a charity that helps people adjust to life outside prison.”

Geoffrey squatted down and received a face-licking. For his trouble, Caesar got a rough pat and a roll in the dirt.

From around the side gate, two of the men in suits reappeared and approached Miss Bonython. Geoffrey quickly retreated toward the back door.

The one with flared nostrils spoke. “No sign of trouble. We’re off.”

The kind woman put the cups down on the back step and followed him out. “Isn’t anyone staying in case the press finds the family? You know what they’re like, with all the publicity about the release.”

“Listen, lady, I’ve got a kid the same age as the one that bastard raped and mutilated.”

“Detective,” she said, “he served his time, twenty years in fact, and by law has earned his freedom.”

“Earned?” He stood with his face over Miss Bonython’s. “That prick hasn’t earned anything. The reason he served the whole damn sentence is ’cause he showed no remorse. Murdering pedophiles like him don’t rehabilitate. They go on to rape and kill again. If you’ve got kids, you’d better lock your doors and windows.”

The woman refused to back down.

“Like I said, he’s done his time. And so has his mother, being forced to leave her home all those years ago and being driven away when anyone discovers who her son is.”

“Our job is to protect the community, not nursemaid pervert child-killers.”

June Bonython put both hands on her hips, but still looked small compared to Bully-Boy.

“Detective, I’m afraid you’re missing the point. Whether you like it or not, the judicial system released Geoffrey Willard back into our community. That makes him someone you are obliged to serve
and
protect.”