Daughters of Eve, page 16
‘The DCI says you have a photo,’ he said, ignoring the question.
I pointed to the file I’d put on the floor at his feet.
‘Not much to go on.’ He thumbed through the paperwork too quickly to be reading it properly.
‘Where are you staying?’ I indicated and eased into the right lane, assuming he’d be staying close to the squad room.
‘I haven’t booked accommodation.’
I turned to look at him and his smile wobbled.
I was following the car in front of me on autopilot.
‘I thought …’ But his voice trailed away as I turned onto the motorway and planted my foot on the accelerator.
‘I’ve got kids, Matt.’ I saw his shock in my peripheral. ‘No bloke. Just kids.’
He pulled out his phone and started tapping while I kept my eyes trained on the road.
What the hell was he thinking? I’d booked a hotel in Melbourne. He couldn’t seriously expect to …
‘I’ve booked a place in Woolloomooloo.’
‘Woolloomooloo?’
He read out the address. I had a fair idea where it was. At least Woolloomooloo meant I could take the Eastern Distributor and miss a bunch of traffic lights. Less time in the car together meant less awkward conversation.
I flicked the indicator and pulled into the lane that would take us into the tunnel.
‘I’m sorry, Hart. I didn’t mean to—’
‘Look, mate,’ I broke in, ‘what happened in Melbourne—’ But before I could finish a car swerved in front of me and I jammed on the brakes, hoping like hell the guy behind me had good reflexes. Thankfully he did.
‘Bloody idiot.’
I sped up again, keeping my eye on the muscle car that had cut me off. He was two cars ahead now, weaving between lanes. The road dipped into the tunnel, and I lost sight of him as he pulled ahead.
We were maybe half a click in and the car in front was driving cautiously, probably as freaked out as me by the kid in the muscle car.
I tried again. ‘Look, Hayes, I’m not really good with—’ And that’s when the car in front of me clipped the barrier, rode up the side of it and flipped. I stood on the brake so hard it felt like I’d pushed my foot through the floor and my shoe was skimming the tarmac. The world slipped into slow motion as the car in front sailed through the air like it had been lifted on a wave. Brakes screeched and cars careened like we were in a full-sized dodgem ride at the show. Sound twisted and stretched as I lifted my arms to protect my face and Matt’s voice rang through the car.
‘Nooooo …’
The car in flight came down on my bonnet and my windscreen exploded, firing a thousand tiny cubes of glass at us as the back end of my car lifted. For an instant I was weightless amid a thousand winking stars before I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the full force of the airbag against my chest.
When the car stopped sliding and the airbag had deflated, I opened my eyes to find a car door where my windscreen had been. My only thought: Please don’t let there be a kid in that car.
The view from the back of the ambulance was surreal. An empty tunnel stretched into the distance to disappear around a slow bend. The only sign that Matt, the ambo and I weren’t alone was the flashing lights of emergency vehicles strobing up the cement walls and the guttural engine hum from a couple of idiots who refused to accept they were stuck in traffic for the foreseeable future.
‘I think you should have it X-rayed.’ The ambo lifted my leg onto his knee and started to wind a bandage around it.
‘I’ve had broken bones before. This ain’t that.’
I tried not to flinch as he tugged at the bandage to check his handiwork but I clearly failed because he scowled. ‘You shouldn’t be standing on it. At least get yourself some crutches.’
I hauled myself up, using the ambulance door for leverage, and found he’d bandaged my leg with a bend, so I couldn’t stand properly.
Matt pushed himself up off the wall where he was leaning and offered me an arm.
‘I’m not a bloody invalid.’ I pushed him away and hobbled a couple of steps, gingerly testing the bandaged leg and ignoring the shooting pain that lanced the length of it. ‘See? I’m fine.’
Matt hovered as I hobbled back to the ambo and he sat beside me. We looked along the empty tunnel.
‘Welcome to Sydney, the harbour city.’ I extended my arm in a flourish and tried to smile. It was hard to see past the little patches of iodine where glass had been picked from Matt’s face, neck and scalp. I probably looked just as gruesome. At least we’d both had the sense to put our arms over our eyes so the damage was only cosmetic.
‘Aren’t you heading to hospital?’ Matt turned to look in at the ambo packing the back of his rig.
‘No point. Nothing broken.’
Matt and the ambo frowned.
The hum of a car in the distance gave me an excuse to look away. Robbo’s Monaro rounded the curve and skidded to a halt in front of us. Robbo unwound the driver’s-side window with a crank handle. The car belonged in a museum, not on the road.
‘What did I tell you, Hart? These tunnels are a bloody death trap!’
I shook my head. There was no point arguing with him, not with the sound of twisting metal behind me heralding the jaws of life doing their job, liberating the barely conscious man in his late fifties who’d landed upside down on my car less than half an hour ago.
No point, either, in telling him about the reinforced safety cage on the general duties car, which had allowed Matt and I to push our doors open and clamber out before the tunnel’s incident response vehicle arrived. My own retired general duties car, sitting safely in the Bunker’s basement, had that same safety cage, I could have added.
Once he’d confirmed there were no broken bones or serious injuries, Robbo was all smirk and cheek.
‘Sorry, Hayes. Would’ve sent a decent driver if we’d known she’d be so distracted.’
‘Distracted by what?’
Matt’s question went unanswered as Robbo wound the window up and leaned over to open the front passenger door.
I hobbled around using the Monaro’s bonnet for support, then the door and finally slid into the low bucket seat. Once I’d got my leg safely inside the car, I leaned over to punch Robbo’s arm while Matt piled his reclaimed luggage into the boot.
‘You know the DCI’s gonna bench you when he sees that leg.’
‘Fuck off, Robbo.’ I glared at him as Matt climbed in behind us.
We were just out of the tunnel when a news alert pinged on my phone. I was rifling through my bag when Robbo’s phone rang. Then Matt’s. Then mine.
I caught Robbo’s eye as he pulled the car to the side of the still-empty road. Something was definitely going down.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was almost midday by the time we got to the Bunker. Hobbling out of the lift, I gritted my teeth against the pain shooting up my leg. Staff from all over the floor were pressed into the conference room, struggling to see the computer screen mounted there for Zoom calls.
People squeezed aside for Robbo, so Matt and I followed him in until we were beside Willoughby at the head of the table. Up on the screen was an unsophisticated website, with images that were slow to load, but when they did their impact was undeniable.
Black-and-white photographs of women, bruised, battered and disfigured, fell onto a black background like playing cards onto a table. When the pictures stopped falling blood-red letters appeared on top of them.
NO MORE!
Then a manifesto rolled out over everything like a scroll unfurling, covering everything, from top to bottom.
The pages of history fail to record the atrocities visited upon women.
Rape, murder, the killing of women and children
barely rate as his-story’s footnotes.
Daily the toll rises.
Women and children, abused and murdered
by those who profess to love them.
Women’s lives constricted by constant vigilance
for their safety and protection.
We say:
NO MORE.
We will no longer be the passive victims of male violence, standing
idle while our sisters are assaulted, killed, shamed and silenced.
If men will not end their offensive, then women
must rise to our own defence.
The Daughters of Eve have taken up arms.
The war that has claimed countless lives behind closed
doors will now see men’s blood spilled on the streets.
It is time for men to learn what it is to walk in fear.
James Prescott
Thomas Griffith-Jones
William Sanderson
Mark Reynolds
Kenneth Jennings
Johnee Martindale
Steven Taylor
Patrick Millar
We execute abusers, oppressors, killers and child rapists.
If you know a name that belongs on this list, download our app here.
‘That’s a joke, right?’ I looked over to Robbo, who was watching the DCI.
‘Local media found a link to it on the socials and contacted us for comment. Cyber are on it.’ Willoughby’s face was tight and drawn as he spoke. He was probably hoping this was a hoax after the way he’d pushed back on Robbo and me and the domestic violence angle.
‘And who the hell is Patrick Millar?’ I asked.
Matt coughed awkwardly. ‘He’s our lastest vic.’
Willoughby blanched visibly but the room stayed silent until everyone had finished reading, then the detective who was driving the computer’s keyboard clicked on the link. It didn’t take too long to download. The app opened with a link to the list, one to the manifesto and a time clock at the top of the page counting seconds. If it was accurate, the app had gone live a couple of hours earlier.
When we opened the list, it already had more than three hundred names on it.
‘It must be a joke.’ Peterson didn’t take his eyes from the screen.
Was this how it felt for the families, I wondered, as they’d sat huddled around their radios in 1939 England when Neville Chamberlain declared war on Germany?
There was a ripple of fear over my skin and an eerie lightness in my limbs, as if this were a dream and I might wake at any time.
‘Christ.’ Robbo could always be counted on to capture the feeling in a room.
‘Hart? What’s happened to your leg?’ Willoughby’s eyes were trained on the long cut up the side of my pants leg, made by the ambo to facilitate his first aid.
‘My office. Now!’ I hobbled behind him as best I could, but by the time I got through his door, he was seated at his desk, gesturing at the dreaded visitor’s chair.
The pain was like lava flowing from my knee to my ankle but the relief when I slumped into the seat was marginal.
‘What happened?’
‘A minor collision coming back from the airport.’
‘Airport?’
I pointed through the glass wall to where Matt was chatting with Robbo beside my desk.
‘Oh, yes. The VicPol liaison.’ Willoughby sneered. ‘I guess we can’t send him back until we discredit this Daughters of Women rubbish.’
It took me a moment to scramble a response. ‘Sir, they’ve got the latest Melbourne victim’s name. That’s more than we’ve got.’
Willoughby looked up, his forehead furrowed deeper than before. ‘Well, it’s none of your concern, Hart. You’re on leave until you get that sorted.’ He waved his hand in the general direction of my leg.
‘You’ll need all hands on deck, sir.’ I tried to stand but a jolt of pain forced me back into the chair.
‘Have you filled out an incident report?’ The DCI slipped on his reading glasses and started typing.
‘It was a bump, sir. Not worth the paperwork.’
Willoughby stopped to peer at me over the top of his glasses. ‘Have you been cleared for duty?’
I held his gaze. There was no way a doctor would clear me to return to duty as a police officer when I couldn’t walk properly. I’d be deskbound at best.
‘The ambulance officer said—’
He cut me off before I could finish. ‘Ambulance officers cannot clear you for duty. When I’ve got an incident report and a doctor’s clearance we can discuss your return to work.’
He went back to typing. I levered myself out of the chair and limped to the door, feeling his eyes on my back. The limp kind of made his case.
By the time I got to my desk, Matt had disappeared and my leg felt like someone had jammed a red-hot poker from the base of my heel, through my ankle and calf and into my knee. It might not be a break but I doubted I’d get a clearance.
I grabbed my bag and hobbled to the kitchen.
Robbo was right behind me. He waited while I dug through my bag for Panadol. When I found a box of Panadeine Forte I’d gotten for a toothache I almost cheered. ‘He benched you, didn’t he?’
I decided to take two tablets instead of one. If one made me drowsy, maybe two would see me pass out so I could escape this shit show for a couple of hours.
Matt appeared in the doorway. ‘I could drive your car home and catch a taxi to the hotel.’
Robbo looked between me and Matt. ‘She’s on my way home, I can drop her.’ There was a tiny rumble of possessiveness in Robbo’s voice and it raised my hackles.
‘Then her car would be downstairs.’ Apparently, Matt didn’t reserve that annoyingly calm voice just for me.
‘Well, I can drive her in when she’s cleared to come back.’ Robbo squared his body to Matt.
It was like watching a tennis match. Matt opened his mouth to answer but I wasn’t up for another volley.
‘Do you think maybe I could weigh in on this?’ I felt like the judge in a junior primary art competition as they turned to face me but then I remembered why I usually take one Panadeine Forte instead of two.
Nausea hit me with the force of a five-metre wave and suddenly I was hanging over the kitchen sink, retching like I’d been binge-drinking for eight hours straight.
‘I’ve got this, mate.’ Robbo took a step towards me and I pulled myself up to standing again.
‘Fuck off, Robbo.’ I ran the tap to clean the sink, wiped a paper towel over my mouth and hobbled out of the kitchen with as much pride as I could muster under the circumstances.
When I emerged from the bathroom and limped to my desk, Robbo was tapping on his keyboard and Matt was swivelling back and forth on my chair like it was a slow circus ride.
‘Bloody jackasses,’ I mumbled as Matt leaped off my chair.
I jammed my work laptop and as many paper files as I could find into the tote I kept in a drawer for unexpected retail opportunities.
‘Are you coming?’
Matt and Robbo both looked up.
‘I was talking to him.’ I tried not to slur as I pointed to Matt. ‘I’m not leaving my car here indefinitely.’
Robbo turned back to his computer, his fingers bashing the keyboard like it was a stress toy, while Matt wrestled the heavy tote out of my hands.
‘We can stop by a medical centre on the way,’ Matt said as the lift doors slid shut.
‘Why? Are you feeling ill?’ I leaned back against the lift wall and gripped the handrail as the world heaved and my mind sank deeper into the drug-induced fog.
Matt nudged me awake.
‘I think we’ve arrived. I used my phone to find the address you gave me.’
I blinked until the blur of colour resolved into a house I vaguely recognised as mine. This was another reason why I only ever took one Panadeine Forte.
‘You came to the wrong street.’
‘The wrong street?’ Matt consulted his phone.
‘Not the wrong street. The wrong door.’
‘You mean the wrong house?’
‘Oh, just … There’s a parking space behind …’ I waved my hand aimlessly. ‘Go around the block, please.’
Matt started the car and drove slowly. I directed him down the lane at the back and struggled to explain the quirky catch on the gate.
‘Here, let me help you.’ Matt had the car door open and he was offering me his hand as if I was a bloody invalid.
‘Bugger off.’ I swung my legs around and tried to stand. ‘Bugger.’
He extended his hand again and this time I took it. Grudgingly.
He slid his arm around my waist. ‘I’ll come back for the bags.’ It sounded like he was talking to his grandmother and I wanted to punch him, but I probably would have lost my footing and fallen.
After a couple of steps, I found my balance.
‘I’m fine. I can walk.’ I pushed him away and he let me go.
At the bottom of the stairs, I looked up at the door. Three small steps but it felt like a mountain.
He hovered behind me. I hate people hovering. Still, it was probably better than falling if my foot failed me on the step.
I didn’t fall, though. Pain fought its way through the fog and I used it to harden my resolve.
Once I was in the house, I let Matt bring in my handbag and the tote full of files, but I made him leave them by the back door.
‘How about I make a cuppa?’ He was hovering again.
‘How about you call a cab?’ I watched his face fall and it felt like I’d kicked a kitten, but there was no way I was letting him play Florence Nightingale. Not with the history we had.
A retro ringtone dragged me out of a deep drug-induced sleep and I almost swept it off the bedside table in my disorientation. I checked the time before taking the call; it was a little after three o’clock in the afternoon, two hours since I’d laid down to elevate my leg when Matt left.
Caller ID told me it was a private number.
‘Yes?’ A bit rude, I know, but too often it’s a scam call threatening legal action or offering money you’ll never see.
‘Hart?’
‘Robbo?’
