Is there anyone else you'd like me to call?Ĭall? says June. She stands and brushes her skirt down and gazes back at the boy on the bed. He will have to go to hospital, I'm afraid. Jodie folds her arms petulantly but goes with a flick of her little blonde ponytail. Jodie? Will you just pop down and let the police know where we are? I've had my moment, she says, letting go my hand to pat her June, would you like a moment alone with Aaron before the She reaches for my hand and I give it to her. The bookshelf above the desk has its sports trophies and souvenirs from Bali and the computer goes through a screensaver cycle of the twin towers endlessly falling. Behind her I can see the usual posters on the wall: surfers, rockstars, women in provocative poses. I try to give her a kindly smile but my face feels stiff. She smooths the skirt down onto her knees. So what do I tell them? the mother asks, ignoring Jodie altogether. She's my partner tonight.īecause your husband's broken his collarbone, says Jodie. Then you'll tell me how this happened, why he's done this to himself. Let's just say I've seen a few things in my time. She's a handsome woman in her forties with short, dark hair and arty pendant earrings, and I can imagine that an hour ago, when her lipstick and her life were still intact, she'd have been erect and confident, even a little haughty. The mother looks at me properly for the fi rst time. Before you called.Ĭan I open the wardrobe? I ask as Jodie steps into the I'm sorry, June, I murmur, but he's passed away. I ask for her name and for her son's, and she tells me that she's June and the boy's name is Aaron. He smells of Pears soap and freshly laundered clothes. Even while I'm going through the motions she strokes the boy's dark, curly hair. There are ligature marks on his neck and older bruises around them. I slip in beside her and do the business but the kid's been gone a while. The room smells of pot and urine and disinfectant and it's clear that she's cut him down and dressed him and tidied everything up. I step over the broken-down door and see the mother at the bed where the boy is laid out, and as I quietly introduce myself I take it all in. The bedroom in question isn't hard to fi nd.
Usually they see the uniform and light up with hope, but neither of them gives me as much as a glance. One of them points without even lifting her head, and already I know that this job's become a pack and carry. In the livingroom two teenage girls hunch at opposite ends of a leather couch. So I leave him to Jodie and go on up to announce myself in the open doorway. Beneath the porch steps on the dewy grass is a middle-aged bloke hugging himself in silence and I can see in a moment that although he's probably done his collarbone he's not our man. When she hits the handbrake and calls in our arrival at the job I jump out and rip the side door back to grab the resus kit. She doesn't know it but I've got daughters her age. She's amped, I guess, and a bit puffed up with a sense of her own competence. Bring it on.Īt the call address Jodie kills the siren and wheels around to reverse up the steep drive. At handover I walked up on a conversation I wasn't supposed to hear. It's been a long, slow shift and there's never been any love lost between Jodie and me. This is when I feel good, when the nerve-ends are singing, the gut tight with anticipation. Got it, she says before I can point it out.īut the fact is I feel brilliant. Down the dark suburban street I can see the house lit like a cruise ship. We come sweeping up the tree-lined boulevard with siren and lights and when the GPS urges us to make the next left we take it so fast that all the gear slams and sways inside the vehicle.
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