Pip Stalks a Ghost - Episode 11 of 'Paternity' an original Australian mystery novel.

This is Episode Eleven of 'Paternity' in which Pip stalks the ghost of one of the men who raped her mother ...

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR

And please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.




A branch from a jacaranda tree slapped the window outside her third floor apartment and feathered the shadows moving on the wall near her desk.

They pirouetted on her arm, lying there on the teak veneer. Her skin was so fair. In the summer it coloured up a bit with a few visits to the beach, like now, but in the winter, it was very pale.

Pip threw on a pair of shorts and T shirt, stuffed her wallet and light jacket into a small leather back pack and took a bus east — to Balmoral where Pug Raven had lived until his accident. She felt as though she was a stalker.

She wanted to spy on Pug, even though he was dead.

She wanted to see where he had lived; watch his family and dredge the environment for clues.



The bus groaned its way into the distance along Bradleys Head Road and, now on foot, Pip descended the Raglan Street hill, heading towards the water. Respectable houses spilled down the slope.

Balmoral, the suburb, nestled around a bay not far from where Sydney Harbour met the sea. Proximity to water made Balmoral what it was — a place where trendy couples in joggers power walked along the Esplanade or lolled for al fresco breakfasts.

Matrons showed off their poodles and elderly grey haired gentlemen pulled down felt hats against the cold. Others in business suits slammed the doors of BMW cars to get themselves on the way to the office.

Pip bought a bagel and coffee in a disposable cup and rounded a corner into a prosperous though unpretentious and leafy neighbourhood. Joe had discovered that Pug's family still lived in the same place.

Pip rounded a corner and found herself standing in front of the rapist's former home.

Indistinguishable from the others, it too was surrounded by mature trees in a not-quite-manicured garden. Opposite there was a small park with a decrepit bench under a fig tree.

The large green leaves rustled in the stiff breeze, fanning her coffee as she settled down onto the splintery wood. She could just see his house through the shrubbery …

This was crazy stuff she told herself. What would a shrink say to her? Would she offer medication?

Pip finished the drink and squashed the cardboard cup against the rough timber of the seat.

But surely this need of hers was understandable. Raven had been one of the men charged with the gang rape of her mother just months before her birth. And Pip had never known who her father was …

As she watched, two children clattered across the verandah at the front of his house and ran down the front path. A boy and girl around 11 and 13 years.

The smaller of the two, the boy, wore a straw boater and a grey suit with a private school crest on its pocket. The girl’s uniform also placed her as a pupil of one of Sydney’s finest.

They made Pip think back to her own childhood – when she’d wished for a sibling of her own. Preferably a sister. Everyone else seemed to have a brother or a sister. For her though there was never anyone just there, on tap.

The boy and girl had hurled the front gate closed and were running down the road before Pip’s brain registered that they each had a dark complexion.

Ten minutes later the plump bagel still lay unopened in its paper bag and Pip came back from her reverie to notice that a tall attractive blonde woman had come out onto the verandah.

The woman locked his front door and walked to a garage at the rear of the garden. The garden where Pug Raven spent his Sundays and played with his kids.

Garage doors and the double gates closed automatically after the near-new black sedan sped around the corner with a screeching of tyres. The woman was fair and their children were dark skinned …

Pip tore the paper from the bagel and bit into its crust.


The tortured trees were trimmed into geometric shapes and the rose bushes stood in disciplined lines as though in a statement of victory over nature, defying the reality of surrounding death.

She’d been to several other funerals at Northern Suburbs Crematorium and always felt how artificial it was. Why couldn’t people rest among gum trees and banksias?

Why not allow emotions easy rein instead of imposing the strait jacket of such overwhelming order? Was it something to do with the supposed comfort of tradition?

Pip asked at the office and discovered that Pug Raven’s ashes were interred in one of many harsh brick walls dividing the northern slope of the grounds.

Some wayward leaves crunched beneath her feet as she moved along the bricks. There were so many bricks and there was little room between each wall. She felt claustrophobic and her back was aching.

She moved around another wall and there he was: Gerald Raven 5th November 1955 — 2nd March 2000. Farewelled with Love.

That was it.

The tiny plaque sat there defiant, offering nothing. Once again Pip had hoped for a sign, an indication, to help in her search. A feeling … anything.

Instead she stood before that damned plaque set there in a concentration camp of other plaques with a tiny sliver of blue sky above … and frustration as her only companion.



Pip’s credit card balance was making demands and work became a necessity.

She leafed through her writing journal for ideas and found some notes she’d made months before: Quarantine Station and the Great Plague.

The quarantine station at North Head was situated on one of Sydney’s grandest pieces of real estate, yet had meant horror and exile for many who spent time there.

Pip decided to write about the station’s role as a place of banishment in 1900 when bubonic plague brought panic to the city.

She thought the story might give a boost to a battle currently being fought to save the site for posterity. She did some work on the net and continued her research in the library at the newspaper office.

Here she turned up the story of a small green launch that flew a yellow flag and brought corpses for quarantine from a depot at Woolloomooloo.

As the boat rounded into the jetty she whistled … Pip read.

On her way out of the building she dropped into Editorial to see Joe. He’d have news about when her country health story would go to press ...

The news editor’s body signalled pleasure when he saw her.

She was surprised to realise her own was making subtle signals as well …

‘The health story? Ah …’ Joe’s face clouded, ‘I have some news on that score.’

Pip didn’t like the sound of that.

‘The boss rang down this morning. Some bush solicitor has filed an injunction against publication. On the grounds that it could create problems for his clients who are suing the soccer club’s insurance company in the matter of the boy’s death. Alleging negligence …’

Pip felt something explode inside her. Con Robson again.

Joe tapped some buttons on his computer keyboard.

‘Robson. He’s your rapist friend?’

‘Yeah. Cute isn’t it. He thinks he’s demonstrating who’s boss.’

‘So he thinks. The paper’s going to fight it Magee. There’ll be a hearing this afternoon. The legal eagles reckon he’s got Buckley’s …’

Pip watched a young cadet struggling under a load of documents as he walked across the big space, cluttered with desks and chairs and occasional partitions. Phones rang and conversations hummed.

‘Probably. Probably he’s got Buckley’s chance. But he’s achieved his object already. To let me know he’s around. It’s a Con Robson power play … that’s what it is.’

Joe stuck a pen in his shirt pocket.

‘Well. He’ll probably cop the costs …’

‘He couldn’t give a damn. He’ll clock it up on the boys’ parents’ bill, you bet.’

Joe rang that night to say the court had lifted the injunction and that costs were awarded to the newspaper. Pip’s story would be printed next day.

‘The paper is making a point,’ Joe laughed.

Next morning Pip bought a paper on the last leg of her jogging session and flopped under a tree on the river bank. She battled with the broadsheet against a stiffening breeze …

The story was on page three — a much more prominent position than it deserved. That wouldn’t do any harm to the town’s cause.

Pip realised she had just raised her thumb in the air in that most contemptuous of gestures.

‘Fuck you Con Robson,’ she muttered.


Pip lay on a pile of cushions on the living room floor in her apartment nibbling at a stick of celery, and saturating herself in the Mozart concerto for clarinet. She was thinking about Selene.

She thought of the days of sunshine when the two of them often wandered hand in hand around the rocks of a nearby beach.

She was the little girl who occasionally broke the link to explore magical pools with their star fish, drifting pink feelers of anemones, tiny shells. The child was sufficiently sure of herself, and encouraged, to take her leave for a short while before returning to the mother — the figure who defined her world.

Pip remembered looking up, past the hand that enfolded her small one, to the steady encompassing smile framed against the sky. She felt again the sense of comfort and security.

From her child's viewpoint Pip could recall no hint of the confusion that would gradually overtake her mother, suppressing her personality and her life.

When it mattered most, and at whatever personal cost in those very early years, Pip's mother was always there — her daughter’s personal rock.

Despite Selene's inner hurts.



I know you were there Aunty.

The day before her aunt had sat in her meticulous kitchen, twisting a handkerchief until it knotted in her hands.

Pip had decided to face her with some direct questions.

Her distressed face was so unlike Selene’s in many ways, but at the same time her sister was there in the fleeting expressions, the way her mouth turned upwards at one corner, the general cut of her frame.

The women had always been close friends …

‘I know her secret. I know you were there at the trial, helping her. I have been to that town and I have even met some of the people who were involved. At last I know …’

‘She asked me to respect her confidence. She wanted it that way. I couldn’t … I couldn’t say anything.’

‘I understand … I do understand.’

Pip leaned down and took her aunt in her arms and they swayed there, sobbing together.

At last they drew apart, but they were still joined by pain.

In time, her aunt spoke: ‘Pip, she suffered so. And yet she was so very strong …’

‘Yeah. I know that now. I mean, I know why … I know the why to so many things now …’

The refrigerator in the corner turned itself off, leaving an intense silence that stretched interminably.

‘Aunty … I went there to discover my dad.’

She nodded.

'The thing is, I still don’t know …’

‘Well … perhaps that might be for the best…’

‘I do want to know. I hate secrets. Even if the answer is something horrific, I still want to know …

'It’s perhaps crazy, but I feel lighter just knowing what I do now. That’s me. That’s just me.’

Pip buried her face in her hands, feeling the comfort of the comparative darkness.

‘They were such horrible people …’ her aunt murmured.

Pip looked up. ‘Yes. Horrible people.’

‘And that town and the court and the police and everyone watching her … watching us. Horrible.’

‘Thanks for helping her.’

Aunty managed a smile through a stream of tears.

‘Of course I’d help her.’

‘Yes. Of course you would.’

The fridge began humming again.

‘Aunty, the thing is, I think there is more to discover … Did Selene ever talk about details … to you? Did she say there seemed to be something missing? Missing from the accounts given in the evidence and different from the events of that night?’

‘Well no ... That was perhaps her big problem. She didn’t talk about it. It was as though she couldn’t remember … locked it all inside herself. I think it festered away inside … gave her those problems.’

‘Mmmm.’

‘I was just there for her. Trying to protect her … She had no-one else. The way they treated her — it was as though she was to blame.’

'Did she ever get help … counselling?’

‘No … we didn’t know about those things. There was certainly nothing like that in that … that place.’

‘Makes sense … No wonder she had such a battle … Well … I’ve found out a few things myself.’

And Pip sat there with her aunt and told her what she knew. She wasn’t letting the secret lie fallow any longer. She was determined to bring everything into the open if she could.

They drank cups of tea and talked until darkness closed in.


Next day Pip fired up her computer and began exploring links on the Human Genome web site.

When the father is unavailable for DNA testing … Grandpaternity is a straightforward test when both of his parents are available and there is no doubt as to his parentage …

Bad luck about that.

She’s also thought about Pug’s children’s DNA but ruled the idea out as unworkable and possibly unreliable as well.

Deceased individuals can be tested using medical, funerary, or abandoned biological materials.

Now we’re talking.

Tests can be performed on some very unusual samples such as envelope flaps, cigarette butts, and very old blood stains.

Well! Another web link … What every law enforcement officer should know about DNA evidence.

Aha …

'A few cells can be sufficient to obtain useful DNA information to help your case … just because you cannot see a stain does not mean that there are not enough cells for DNA typing … DNA collected from the perspiration on a baseball cap discarded by a rapist …

Once again the internet had won through for her.

Pip closed down her laptop and poured herself a large celebratory scotch.



The place was in an old building in a side street of Rushcutters Bay.

Pip walked under a sign that said ‘The Bay Gym’ and began climbing some wooden stairs that showed wear from thousands of feet over dozens of years on their way to dance in the squared ring.

She could hear the smack of leather against leather and flesh as soon as the narrow stairwell gave way to a large and dingy space that was the gym.

A wall opposite held a poster proclaiming a quote of Mike Tyson’s: I won my last few fights on brute strength and intimidation.

The boxing ring itself was set above the surrounding area, flooded with light.

Two guys in head guards were apparently doing their best to knock each other senseless, with one notching up more success than the other, and already pinning his opponent on the ropes. Half a dozen others stood around yelling encouragement, and Benny Dale extracted himself from this group and walked towards her through the gloom outside the ring.

‘Howdy Pip. Found us okay?’

‘No worries.’

Benny was a boxing writer attached to a ring magazine in the same stable as Joe’s daily. His bent nose and cauliflower ears demonstrated a long term interest. Joe got him to agree to smooth Pip’s way into the scene.

She hadn’t been to a boxing gym before and peered around with fascination. Men were everywhere, skipping rope, punching bags and lifting weights.

She noticed two muscular women kitted up and shadow boxing on the other side of the ring. It looked as though they were warming up for the next bout.

Pip nodded in their direction: ‘I read they were trying to stamp out women in the boxing game. They reckon it’s too dangerous for them.’

‘Not having much luck. Don’t forget it’s the land of equal opportunity. You dames want to be in everythin these days.’

‘And fair enough too. Blokes have had it good for too long.’

‘So you’re doin a story about Pug Raven?’

‘Well, we’ll see. You can say a bit of research anyway.’

Benny said Pug was a partner in the gymnasium over five years and was well liked.

‘He was real good in the ring himself, even though he was a little fella. Won a flyweight title a few years ago. As a promoter he was fair and ran a bloody good gym. Grown men cried the day word came through that he’d been killed.’

Raven must have turned over a new leaf … took his punishment for the rape and began anew. Or maybe being a pack rapist and a gaol bird was of no account in the boxing world …

‘He did pretty well for himself money wise too didn’t he? Got a house in Balmoral …’

‘Oh yeah. These days people like to work out. This place is a fitness centre as much as anything.’

‘So grown men cried …’

‘They did. They even got together a bit of a memorial for him over there. Some of his boxing stuff. Trophies, his title belt …’

‘Can we have a look?’

The smell of sweat was profound as they moved to the back of the room. The memorial was in a long glass case against the wall — stuffed with all sorts of memorabilia, topped off with a large photograph of the dead man.

The pic looked like a copy of the one the paper emailed to her at the pub, but this big clear print was even more flattering. The eyes were hypnotic, and set in a finely chiselled face.

The boxing bric-a-brac itself was strangely moving. Remnants of a person’s existence. Such inanimate objects seemed to have an element of life about them when they were in use, and took on a different character once abandoned.

In this case, Pug’s mates had invested the odds and ends with a new status altogether. As museum pieces.

Pip’s own purpose in this seemed tawdry somehow. But she had to keep her eye on the big picture — and Selene’s tortures were the centre of that.

The words from the genome web site eddied in her brain: A few cells can be sufficient to obtain useful DNA information to help your case … just because you cannot see a stain does not mean that there are not enough cells for DNA typing.

‘Benny, is all this old, or gear he had late in his life?’

‘A mixture, I think. I know the manager put aside the stuff he’d been using when he worked out that morning. The morning he died. In memory of, sort of thing …’

Pip leaned forward eagerly. Gloves. Boots. Mouth piece. Head guard, protection cup, shorts.

‘That stuff there you mean?’

Benny nodded.

‘What are those strips of cloth in the little mesh bag Ben?’

‘His hand wraps. The ones he’d been wearing ...’

‘So they use hand wraps under their gloves? And they saved the ones he’d been wearing?’

‘Mmmm. You wouldn’t think such tough critters could be so sentimental.’

‘And he’d have unwound them from his hands and put them straight in that bag … the bag with a zipper.’

‘Yeah. Pug might use his wraps for a couple of sparring sessions and then you could toss them in a washing machine in the bag and use them some more. The bag stops them tangling.’

‘And the bag would allow in fresh air.’

Pip couldn’t believe her luck.

‘And the head guard. What about the head guard? Would anyone have used it since?’

‘The same. All this stuff was in his locker and then it became part of the memorial. What’s with the detail Pip?’

'It’s just that this is a new world for me … never heard of hand wraps.’ Pip pulled at her ear lobe.

‘Benny … any chance I might borrow a couple of these things? For a picture. These aren’t ideal circumstances for pix. Do you reckon they’ll let me take them back to the paper, for just a few hours? We could get them done in the studio, under lights.’

‘What were you thinkin of? Wouldn’t be much of a picture …’

‘I’ll get them to stooge something up. What do you reckon?’

‘I’ll give it a go …’

Half an hour later Pip walked down the wooden steps with a big brown paper bag containing a boxing head guard, hand wraps and a mouth piece.

All used.


The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

GO TO EPISODE TWELVE

DNA forensics is a fascinating field and could have far reaching implications. Does anyone have some views on this?

Thwarted Romance - Episode 10 of 'Paternity' an original Australian mystery novel.

This is episode ten of 'Paternity' in which Pip trips back to the Sydney newspaper to put her story to bed, and sets a trap to catch a rapist.

Please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR



Old Mr. Rattray, the grocer-cum-vehicle parts merchant installed the new tyres onto Pip's
car around eleven next morning and once again she carried her gear down the fire stairs.


Barbara Brown at the regional hospital was a homely woman in a uniform that held so much old fashioned starch that it squeaked. They met at the reception desk and the deputy led the way with rubber soled shoes squelching on the luminous linoleum, passing dormitories of patients lolling on freshly plumped pillows — one lengthy room for females, a second for males.

A whiff of eucalyptus mixed strangely with the perfume of flowers ... she’d noticed the path to the front door was bordered by carefully tended rose bushes, surely a triumph in this climate. All in all, the hospital seemed a microcosm of all that was good and caring about country Australia.

The deputy’s eyes melted when they met those of her patients, and became steely as she spoke about shortcomings in the health system.

Yes, she said, she could turn up some startling statistics about the number of people rushed to her hospital over distances in an emergency and would fax them to Pip.

Yes, she could remember the day of Jim Rouse’s tragedy very clearly and could back up his mother’s version of events.

No, she would not venture any statement about whether young Jim may have survived if given immediate treatment, but offered knowing winks and other body language to offer an opinion that he may well have done so.

Pip liked this no-nonsense woman. Their meeting was enough to convince her that she was on the right track with her story.


She arrived home at noon Wednesday and the tomato plants looked decidedly droopy. Pip gave them a little TLC and forced herself into a solid session at the gym around the corner, pumping and stretching until the sweat ran into her eyes. Thoughts of Selene’s misery were invading her again, and the exertion was an attempt to exorcise them.

That afternoon Pip made a long carrot juice and flopped onto the carpet, pulling the phone with her as she went. She dialled and had to suffer endless electronic voices before she heard the human husky tones of a particular friend of hers - Denzy Green, a pathologist at the State Institute.

Pip told Denzy she needed her help and they made arrangements to meet later in the week for a bush walk and a yarn.

It turned cold as night moved in and eggs were crackling in the pan when Pip’s fax began whirring. Still in her gym gear, she stood and watched the paper creep from its slot in the machine.

The print was the head and shoulders photograph of a man … ineffectual looking mouth and chin … paradoxically strong nose … eyes that avoided the camera. Frank Rolls had sent the pic from the pub.

It was a clipping from the latest edition of the Guardian with a caption that read: ‘Solicitor Con Robson who will take over the Rotary District chairmanship next month.’

Good old Frank. He’d taken the opportunity to get a photograph of the slimy solicitor. It hadn’t taken the town’s business community very long to forget Robson’s shady past. Rotary indeed.

She looked at her own face in the bathroom mirror, and then at Robson’s photograph. It was hard to compare the mouth and the eyes, for so much depended on expression. But the nose. Her hateful nose …

Maybe there was a similarity, but she was sick of guessing.


The sky was sludge and the rained poured down in a wall outside her window next morning, but Pip jumped from the sheets and enjoyed the luxury of a hot shower in a recess with a real sliding glass door.

After breakfast she got stuck into the assignment, finishing it as far as she could. Then she was lucky enough to score an appointment with the Health Minister to get some balance into the story.

She felt imprisoned as she got into a business suit with a mini skirt and dark stockings for the first time in more than a week. Jeans and shirt were more her deal any day.

The Minister mouthed the usual platitudes but his comments were good enough to round off a mediocre story. She left Parliament House and went straight to the newspaper office for a spot more research in the library and to slot in the politician’s statement.

By five-thirty the story was complete and Joe was at her elbow. ‘I’ve scored an early mark — how about a drink?’

Pip realised she was very happy to see him.


The footpaths were dotted with puddles left over from the rain as they made their way to a brasserie at the harbour end of town. There they sat in a corner with a beer each while a blues trio played to the swelling crowd of office workers.

‘So … tell me the real reason why you went bush.’ Joe’s long fingers fondled the glass, and his eyes caressed her.

‘That’s presumptuous …’

‘Maybe. I can read you pretty well Magee. You should know that by now.’ Magee was the pet name he had used for her in their more intimate moments in the past.

‘I reckon there was some pretty special explanation for that trip.’

You couldn’t put much over Joe … She sensed concern radiating towards her, his athletic body inclined across the table, threatening the stability of their glasses of beer.

There was something else too — not just concern. She knew Joe felt deeply for her. So much did he care that she had recoiled from his intensity before, and even now shrivelled into the corner, involuntary in her need to avoid such profound emotion.

She wasn’t ready.

Would she ever be ready?

Joe registered her rebuff, and he sat back, blue eyes melancholy, his shoulders slumped; wretched.

She needed to make amends somehow, and decided to trust Joe with her story. A sort of atonement if you like …

She told him about the rape and the rapists, the secretive town and her new realisation surrounding her mother’s torments. And when she finished he took her hand and stroked it softly.

Pip's body responded to his touch, despite herself. She'd thought she was over Joe ...

‘That’s a big one mate. Let’s know if I can help out. You’re really stirring the possum there.’

‘Whatcha gotta do, you gotta do Joe,’ she said with damp eyes.

‘Yeah, I know. Tell me if I can help. And keep it cool eh?’

Easier said than done.


Thursday’s heavy skies disappeared, leaving Friday a blue day with puffs of greyish-white cloud around the edges. Pip saw little of the outdoors though, spending hours in high rise office blocks in the Phillip and Macquarie Streets end of town.

Her solicitor’s chambers were in Phillip, and here she filled in forms necessary for the order to require Gazza to submit to a DNA test. Mark Berenson’s opinion was that the application would probably be granted, and he approved of the arrangements she had made with George Wimpole. He accepted her instructions to receive George’s results when they became available.

Pip thought it wise to engage an officer of the law as a buffer between herself and George. Whether or not he was now co-operative, George Wimpole had been an associate of rapists.

Purposely, Pip did not approach the matter of Con Robson with her solicitor. For that slimy little man she reserved some ideas she wanted to keep under wraps.

At the pathologist’s she stared fixedly out of the window when the nursing assistant plunged the hypodermic into her arm. She hardly felt the prick. The view stretched over the botanical gardens to the harbour and the heads. These Macquarie Street medicos really had it made.

Saturday she called a truce in her quiet war and went jogging around the tree lined streets near her apartment, reorganised the dust in the living room, and took in an Italian movie that afternoon.

On Saturday night she looked forward to Sunday …



A very young 55 years-old clad in khaki shorts and joggers, Denzy Green strode ahead, deftly avoiding the pitfalls of the rough bush track. They came to the top of a rise, made it to a rocky outcrop and sat down, heaving for their lost breath.

Denzy recovered first. ‘So my girl, I get the idea that we’re here for more than exercise. Open up.’

You could see bits of Sydney Harbour through the trees, and tiny boats skimmed the blue surface, taking part in one of the traditional weekend yacht races. There were small motorised runabouts out there too, their wake creating shining diamonds in the water.

Pip took in the scene absentmindedly as she recounted the story of her quest.

‘And so I need some expert help. I hear the institute is working on pilot studies to establish DNA data banks, and that criminals in gaols are the targets. I'm needing to know about a bloke who served some time for rape.'

Pip knew she was urging the pathologist towards her professional limits, but felt certain the strength of their friendship could stand the strain.

The two drew closer together, their heads almost touching - there, sitting on the rock - as Pip explained about Selene's secret. Denzy had known that Pip didn't know anything of her father so it wasn't too hard to fill her in on the new details.

‘Actually, they’re more than pilot studies these days …’

‘Ah. I don’t like the whole idea of DNA data banks, as you know. They seem a terrible invasion of privacy, but ...’

‘You don’t mind taking advantage of the system just this once?’ said Denzy with a laugh. Denzy’s gaze followed the orderly path of a line of ants making their way through the undergrowth.

‘You know you’re pushing it. And you couldn’t ever use any information I may give you.‘

‘Of course Den. I simply want to solve this very personal puzzle. I don’t know what else to do. It seems the only way.’

‘Do you really want this?’ Compassion softened Denzy’s sensitive face. ‘It has to be such a strain on you. None of those guys is what you might call good father material Pip. You’re taking risks with your psyche doing this.’

‘The damage is already done. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle without some of the pieces. It’s like I can’t rest until it’s complete. You’d be the same.’

‘I don’t know about that …’

‘Getting you involved is a very big ask. Just say if it’s too much — I’d understand. On the other hand, you know you can trust me,’ Pip leaned forward. ‘This is a big deal for me Denzy, I can’t think of much else.

‘I really need to uncover Selene’s secret, to sort of release her from the load she carried all those years. It’s too late in some ways of course, but somehow she and I both need for this to happen … to just know.’

Denzy sighed deeply and hitched her small back pack onto one shoulder. ‘Let me have the results of your own DNA test for comparison and I’ll see what I can do.’



Do I want this? She asked …
As well she might.
Do I crave
To know
Which monster Is my father?

The answer’s Yes.
But,
With trepidation.

I hate stereotypes
But I still need
To put myself
In a box.

To know
In what sort of box I belong.
My mother was labelled
As raped
And no longer
A virgin.

I’m already typed
As a bastard.
I mean ...
What will I look like
On the family tree?

Seems there are
Two possibilities:
Society
Could pin me
As black …
Or criminal.

Give me taint
By colour.
Any time.

I puzzle about
What’s in my genes;
In the double helix
Of my central being.

Just how much
Of what is me
Comes from him?
I can’t help asking
The question: Nature or nurture …
Which one prevails?


The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

GO TO EPISODE ELEVEN


What should Pip do about her relationship with Joe? Would you fall for him yourself? I'm talking males as well as females here ... Come on - what d'ya reckon?

Slashed Tyres - Episode 9 of 'Paternity' an original Australian mystery novel.

An old linotype machine of the variety used at Frank's newspaper. The operator sits at the keyboard at front and the peculiar machinery works to produce lead 'slugs' from hot metal in a cauldron within the linotype. See videos on the sidebar to see how these contraptions worked. © 2008 photobucket inc.


This is episode nine of 'Paternity' in which outback mechanic Gazza is the suspect when Pip's car tyres are slashed. Is this act in retribution for the young journalist's efforts to find out about the rape of her mother?

Please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR



THE STEAM ON THE BATHROOM MIRROR could not blot out the purple and black of the bruise on the side of her face. It looked as though she’d been three rounds …

Pip decided to ignore the wound and bluff her way through the day.

The hall clock showed eleven as she walked downstairs. It was Sunday and the bar was supposed to be closed. However, she knew that most country pubs entertained a certain amount of unofficial drinking, Sabbath or no, and this pub was no exception.

Frank was over in the corner, a cigarette in his rust-coloured fingers. He’d been waiting for her.

Pip paused for the reaction, and got it. ‘Good god Pippin what happened?’

Frank’s face was grey as she told her story.

‘You’re nuts. You know that! You can’t go tangling with that type of person by yourself. He’s been in gaol for chrissake. Things happen to you in gaol, and he was probably a thug before he went in anyway.’

‘I see your point …’

‘You can be damned sure he doesn’t want to go back in there, and he won’t let a slip of a girl get in his way.’

‘It was a considered risk Frank. It was a way to get a bit of action going.’

‘You’ve done that all right.’

He took a long drag on his cigarette, then ashed it into a tin tray that carried an advertisement for Johnny Walker whisky.

‘You are such a mixture my girl. Cautious at one breath and fearless, even stupid, the next.’

Pip shrugged away his concern.

‘Robson’s reaction last night showed he is still very sensitive about the rape. Show’s he’s vulnerable eh?’

‘Well, he would be …’

‘How am I going to rule him out? I need to, you know. With Raven dead …’

‘Whatever you do mate, please take care …’

Pip’s mind was on a roll.

‘I suppose the next move is to get the DNA tests under way — George will be easy. But I’ll have to apply to the court for Gazza of course.’

‘That’s better done in the city … ’

‘Mmmm. Which means I have to get this assignment out of the way and take myself back home.’

Someone dropped a tray of glasses behind the bar and the crash of broken glass made the silence that followed seem as dense as a moonless night.

‘So, Pippin … You’ll be able to get the truth on Wimpole and Gazza. A test for Raven seems out of the question and Robson’s a problem.’

Frank was as solemn as she’d ever seen him. ‘Isn’t this just chasing impossible ghosts? Mate … what if … What if it was none of those blokes? What if it was someone else altogether?’

‘Frank my mum wasn’t up for one night stands …’

‘But maybe there was someone you didn’t know about?’

‘Shut up Frank – no more complications!’

She banged her hand on the table to underline her frustration.

Then Pip sat quiet a moment looking towards the cleaner gathering up the broken glass, but with her eyes out of focus.

‘It’s no use putting the horse before the cart Frank. Look - here’s something … I’ve had a thought about Con Robson …’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘A year or so ago the government announced it would set up a data bank of DNA profiles of prisoners in gaols. Do you remember?’

‘Well yeah. I do. But how widespread would that be?’

‘I’m pretty sure that everyone with a sentence of more than five years has to comply these days.’

‘So. Robson you reckon? You’d be lucky if he was caught in the net so early in the project, wouldn’t you?’

Pip sipped an orange juice she’d ordered. ‘I suppose so.’

‘And how the hell could you get into that file anyway? You should probably get used to the idea that you’ll never solve this one …’

‘I’m going to do my damnedest Frank.’

Hungry, Pip abandoned the pub and wandered down the road to try her luck at the café. The smell of steak and eggs wafted out of the kitchen as she settled herself into one of the alcoves and ordered a serve for herself. She asked the young waiter to add some bacon and tomatoes, a couple of slices of toast and a cup of coffee.

The Greek’s moustache twitched again, along with his smile, when she told him she’d been able to get enough information from the Rouse family.

Some people in the town held high hopes for the influence her story might have on the Minister for Health. She was convinced they didn’t have much of a chance of getting their hospital back, although she intended helping if she could.

Pip was down to the bacon rind when George Wimpole slid into the seat opposite. He’d rung her mobile earlier saying he wished to see her. She was hoping he wasn’t having second thoughts about his test.

George looked worried. That morning his cousin Gazza visited him for the first time in years and told him that Con Robson was worried about her connection to Selene.

‘He threatened me Pip. Told me to keep my mouth shut or else …’ George was absentmindedly rubbing his index finger up and down the edge of the Formica table.

‘He doesn’t have to know does he? He’d only find out if you let something slip.’

‘Yes,’ George straightened himself ‘It was my decision to talk to you. It was time.’

‘We shouldn’t be seen together George.’

‘No. I just didn’t want to speak on the phone. I wouldn’t rule out phone tapping in the Robson camp.’

‘That’s a bit sophisticated isn’t it? Around here?'

‘The Robsons have been powerful people for a long time Miss Holmes, and they don’t stop short of anything that needs to be done for them to remain that way. I wish you hadn’t told him about your mother …’

‘I wanted a bit of action George and it seems I’ve got it.’

‘I hope we don’t get too much action.’ Wimpole was pulling his ear lobe, ‘I won’t let you down. I’ve made up my mind, and I’ll be going ahead with the test tomorrow. Be careful Pip.’

‘You be careful too George.’

Wimpole stepped briskly out of the café and Pip swirled the remaining contents of her coffee cup. Poor old George. She hoped she hadn’t stirred up trouble for him.

The assignment had to be wrapped up quickly now. Staunch said he had broken the ice with football club secretary Jerry Humber and the coach Jack Tripp, and promised to set up a meeting. If she twisted Harold’s arm they might be able to get that out of the way this afternoon.

She needed to visit the hospital 400km to the south for background info and maybe some statistics. That could happen on her way home.


Frank left his desk at the Guardian office when she peered through the door, and was now dragging deeply on a cigarette. That afternoon he’d written a couple of thousand words towards his latest crime thriller, and he was pleased with himself.

As they walked along the edge of the road towards the pub Pip marvelled at the effect softening shadows were having on the last of the day. The massive sky was fast losing its colour, and there was a drift of haze caressing the hills to the west.

Humber and Tripp had turned up for their arranged meeting with her in the pub lounge that afternoon. True to his word, Harold Staunch was there too, in the role of mother hen.

The shabby space was deserted apart from their group, and the men opened up and provided some good copy for her. They were in emotional knots about the death of the boy and the injustices they saw as being perpetrated on the town by the big ugly city.

Pip found herself listening to the simple and proud country men with empathy. They and their ancestors had worked hard on this land and figured the rest of the nation owed them for their efforts. Instead the world was hurtling headlong into change, and the country folk were being left behind, swamped in the slipstream.

The town didn’t want much, they told her — only simple supports that would allow their families to remain where they were, but with dignity and some of the spoils that made modern life a bit easier. They’d made their contribution they said. How would the city people have prospered without their country cousins?

She felt she could excuse these people for the angry front they presented to strangers. The men had no hidden agenda — unlike others in their town.

Pip had brought Frank up to speed by the time they breasted the bar.

‘So it’s back to the smoke tomorrow?’

‘Mmm. Early. I’ll travel via the regional hospital. I want to milk them of some statistics as background. How do you think I’ll go?’

‘They’re generally as tight as traps. But I do have a contact on the staff — Barbara Barns is the Deputy Director of Nursing. She gets sick of the rubbish that goes on with the administration and spills some beans to me now and then. She’ll probably help you. I’ll give her a bell in the morning. Let her know you’re coming.’

‘Thanks mate.’

They wandered over to the window table, beers in hand. Men were drifting in now, beating their broad hats against muscled thighs, and eager to lay the dust.

‘You’ll keep me in touch with any antics? Of Robson and Co?’

‘Yeah, of course. ‘Though they’ll probably return to their burrows when you’re not around … How are you going to work on this now? You’re determined to keep going?’

‘While I can. George Wimpole is getting his test this week and I’ll make an application to force Gazza into it as soon as I can.’

‘That’s when the shit could hit the fan. I’m pleased you’re getting out of the place.’

Pip nodded. ‘Bloody Gazza. He’d lash out all right, if I was within cooee … I’ve no ambition to be a target for his spleen.’

She noticed her throat rasped as she spoke.

‘I’ll see what I can chase down on Raven among the boxing crowd too. You never know … '

‘Got any ideas about Con Robson? It will be hard to get the wood on him. You’ll have to ferret your way into the system somehow.’

‘You’re not the only one with contacts Frank.’

She knew this was almost pure bravado. The prison data base was fairly new and there was a stink from the privacy people when it was introduced.

The department was bound to be squeaky clean about leaks at this stage in the game, but she’d cracked harder nuts than this in the past.


Pip was already shivering with the brisk cold of morning when she got to the pub bathroom next day to find the hot water was off. She gritted her teeth and passed under the freezing shower almost on the run. The slippery plastic curtain made its usual lunge at her on the way out of the recess, and she tripped over the rubber mat.

It was a good start to the day.

As she told Frank, she had decided to make an early beginning on the trip home, and wanted to leave plenty of time for her visit to the regional hospital. She would stay overnight as far down the track as she could after that.

Rays of light were seeping over the horizon when she stepped onto the rough wooden verandah with her first lot of gear and tip toed gingerly to the steel fire stairs. These reached from the upper level down to the car park at the back of the pub. The last thing she wanted was to wake any of the old soaks and road construction workers who made the hotel their home.

The cook was waddling from the woodshed with arms full of kindling, a look of concern on her pancake face.

‘Vot happened to your car?’

‘My car?’

‘It is damaged …’

Pip picked up her stride. Her car was standing, leaning oddly, at one end of the building. She could see two tyres had been slashed and there was a great scar in the paint work as though someone had scraped a screwdriver its full length. The bastards.

They hadn’t got inside. And the engine started at first turn of the key.

‘You have a problem.’ The cook had followed her to the car.

‘Yes, I have a problem.’

Pip carted the gear back up the fire stairs and dumped it onto the bed. She would sort out the vehicle situation after an early breakfast. The cook put in front of her a plate mounded with steaming scrambled egg on a soggy slice of white toast.

Gazza would have been the culprit, probably at the bidding of Con Robson. She could smell their involvement. It was certain she would not go to Gazza for new tyres. So what to do?

She’d been getting her petrol from a pump outside the grocery shop a couple of doors down. Could be they had some contacts …

Frank wandered into the dining room, bleary eyed, and headed for the urn. He sat opposite her with his instant coffee.

‘I thought you’d be gone by now.’

‘So did I.’

Pip told him what had happened and he jumped to the same conclusion as she had done — that Gazza and Robson were to blame. He thought old Rattray at the grocery shop would be able to get the tyres.

‘There’s no way that they’ll be here before tomorrow though. He’ll have to get them over on the bus.’

‘C’est la vie.’

Pip ordered the tyres and used the rest of the day leafing through more of the old files at the Guardian office.


The place was owned by a family who began the paper fifty years before. The matriarch was the big woman Pip had seen reading galley proofs on her first visit. She ran the business with an iron first and was by far the hardest worker around.

She looked after the tiniest details, including wiping a rag dipped in disinfenctant over the handset of the one office telephone, supposedly to ward off illnesses. Make a call in that office and you nearly gagged with the smell of eucalyptus.

The matriarch had shown a deal of tolerance and even friendship towards her, and for that Pip was thankful.

After a couple of hours with her head down and no real results Pip wandered around the print shop at the back of the office.

The little weekly tabloid was still produced old style.

In a hot and airless corner of the room a thin balding guy in a black apron and with a twinkle in his eye showed her how the linotype worked. It was a maze of moving parts clinking and gyrating around a central keyboard.

The fuss finally produced hot slugs of rectangular shaped lead, each the size of one line in a newspaper column. Inside the machine she could glimpse the cauldron of silver grey molten metal used to mould the slugs. She could feel the heat tingle on her face.

When the slugs cooled down another operator called a compositor arranged them carefully into heavy frames or formes the size of two tabloid pages. This younger man worked methodically, his big hands smeared with black ink, looking too awkward for the job.

He placed the bits of lead into patterns that were recognisable newspaper columns, and topped them off with individual pieces of type that became headlines. All of the type was mirror reverse and you had to adapt your eyes and your brain before you could read any of it.

With a grunt of satisfaction when the formes were full and the patterns making the newspaper pages complete, the compositor tightened the frame using a type of allen wrench in several holes along each side.

Then one at a time he humped his heavy burdens over to a small galley press where he used a big ink roller to blacken the formerly silver coloured slugs to obtain an impression on newsprint.

He took the proof to the matriarch who read it for mistakes.

At last when the big woman was satisfied, the printer staggered with the heavy formes over to the the big flat bed printing press that waited in silent vigil to receive them.

‘Do you go nuts turning everything inside out?’ She was speaking about the mirror reverse fonts.

‘Becomes second nature in no time.’ The compositor was a slow moving guy with a lazy grin.

Pip gazed astonished as a young apprentice fed the flat bed with separate sheets of double broadsheet size newsprint.

With a deep mechanical clunk the machine grasped each sheet, hurled it past the formes and spewed it, printed on one side, out of the rear. By this the printed type was in its traditional, readable form.

The lad then knocked the big pages into a neat heap, turned them over and did it all again to make the printed impression on the second side. Finally a hand guillotine in the corner sliced the pages in two to become the familiar tabloid size.

Shades of the French Revolution, that big shiny blade.

She thought about the contrast with the computer generated artwork and gigantic presses back at the daily ...

By the end of the day Pip had turned up several stories about the Robson family. They were apparently large land holders in the district and Robson and his late father figured prominently in court reports, invariably defending criminals.

She noticed that over the years Staunch had made statements to the paper lamenting the shortage of health facilities in the town — and that was before they closed down the hospital.

There were also occasional stories featuring George Wimpole as a spokesman for the school where he taught and Gazza got his share of headlines as a football hero. Raven faded from the columns when he left town.

She noted that her mother’s rape case proved to be a short term wonder so far as the Guardian was concerned. Pip found no reference to it in papers dated after the sentencing.

The fact that the men were to be gaoled for their crimes appeared in a small panel story on page four, in just one issue.

Frank returned from a job he’d been doing out of town and was back at his desk.
‘Thanks for everything mate.’

‘Any time, you know that. I tell you what though — you can pay me back.’

‘How?’

‘Just write a few letters to the editor and fax them down to me. Then we’ll be square.’

Typical. During her cadetship Letters to the Editor columns were often filled with pieces pounded out by young journalists in their spare time. There were never enough readers’ contributions.

‘Next you’ll be wanting me to write something about 34B bras.’

‘I’d forgotten that one … Why not?’

In the old days when news was short Frank would draw on office myths to fill a space. This one told about readers calling in with complaints that a thief was stealing women’s bras from backyard clotheslines.

The thief only took garments size 34B.


The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

GO TO EPISODE TEN

This episode illustrates that there is more than meets the eye in newspaper production - even in a little country rag. How much do you know about journalism and publishing - yesterday and today?

Accident on a Dark Night - Episode 8 of 'Paternity' an Australian mystery novel.

This is episode eight of 'Paternity' in which journalist Pip Holmes takes a reckless step that leads her into trouble on a dark night. But will it lead to the answer of her chilling question - was her father a rapist?

Please leave feedback in a comment at the end of this instalment.

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR


Pip felt as though a sledge hammer was at work on her chest, and her breath was coming fast. She had just got used to the conundrum of trying to sort out the three rapists — attempting to arrange them in her mind as prospective fathers. That job had been difficult enough, but this!

Wimpole was ringing his delicate hands and looking everywhere else but at Pip.

‘We were all young … and easily pressured. It’s so very difficult in a small town.’

‘All right.’ The words exploded from deep within her, ‘but who was the fourth man that night?’

‘It was his idea you know. Oh yes Gazza and Pug were only too pleased to be in it, but Robson pulled the strings. They abducted your mother and Robson turned up afterwards to share the spoils.’

‘Robson?’ Pip was finding it difficult to absorb all of this …

‘His father was a solicitor and a big name around here. When it all came out they made threats. They insisted that he be left out of it. Out of the police investigations. I must also admit that some money changed hands …’

Wimpole’s eyes were red and puffed, and the words tumbled from his mouth now as though they were hot coals.

‘This has been a burden Miss Holmes, and I am pleased I have told you. But I cannot make this official in any way. You must understand that. I must live here. I cannot dredge up the past. My entire lifestyle would change. A teacher of small children … I’ve kept it quiet so far.

‘I was so lucky that I was not stopped from teaching after the trial. I probably would have been except that the judge made some kind comments after they were sentenced …’

He had become an automaton: programmed to tell his story despite the consequences.


Frank was clattering away on an ancient Underwood typewriter when Pip walked into the Guardian office.

The place was officially closed on Saturday afternoons, but Frank had said he’d had some catching up to do …

‘Didn’t ever have the heart to throw out this old thing,’ he said, patting the metal ringed keys.

‘Hey look, I’ve got some news …’

Pip’s tone of voice must have signalled her tension, because Frank immediately twirled on his chair to look straight at her.

‘What do you know about a guy called Robson?’

Frank’s face furrowed into a grimace of disgust. ‘Con Robson. He’s the low life who swindled half the town’s oldies out of their retirement savings. Current generation of a family of crooked legal eagles.’

‘Who did he rip off?’

‘Every cashed up old woman for miles around. Robson invested their funds in shonky deals until the law caught up with him. Must have got away with a couple of million. And left a lot of people destitute.’

‘Charming.’

Sitting there on the edge of the heavy old desk, Pip delivered a potted version of Wimpole’s story. Frank began pacing the small space in the middle of the cluttered room, and then stopped to face her.

‘Are you ready for this kiddo?’

‘Mmmm. What’s to be ready for?’

‘He got out of gaol only a few months back. Did six years.’

Pip picked up a pen and began tapping it absentmindedly on the desk. This was something to get your head around.

It seemed the sunlight had dimmed a little before either of them spoke again.

‘I met him the other night Frank — at the football meeting. He was with Gazza.’

‘That would be right. Birds of a feather.’

‘But they don’t seem at all alike …’

‘Not physically, but they’ve got things in common. A low cunning, for one.’

‘Staunch had no time for him, but he didn’t tell me Robson had been in gaol. And neither did George.’

‘Some sort of town loyalty I suppose.’


By six-thirty that evening, after a questionable and early meal in the dining room, Pip lay at full length on the faded pink chenille bedspread, eyes following the swirling pattern of English-style roses embossed on the fake plaster ceiling.

So … Con Robson. The fourth man. Frank had said he was repulsive: tiny, quiet and secretive and with a handshake like a wet fish. He had dark brown hair and a limp left over from a speeding accident. That jelled with the character she’d seen with Gazza at the footy meeting.

Her father? Was he her father?

Frank reckoned Robson treated his attractive red-haired wife and three skinny children as though they were his possessions more than anything. He said the family liked to present a façade of high respectability in the town.

Only after the arrest did people break the silence surrounding hideous deals and illegal schemes woven for years by the solicitor and his austere father. The old man died years before, and Con had proved a worthy successor, carrying on the fraudulent business for some time without discovery.

Just what had she uncovered? Pip dragged herself off the bed and poured a glass of water from the jug. She couldn’t have hoped to find a decent, fitting father among a pack of rapists. But this lot had turned out to be a pretty deranged bunch.

Was Con Robson her father? Without clear evidence yet, she still felt that Gazza and Wimpole were not. And Pug Raven really did seem unlikely. But how could she get to prove anything? How?

Pip realised she couldn’t just march up to Robson and demand that he get a DNA test. Apart from Wimpole’s story, there was nothing to pin the rape on him. Wimpole wouldn’t speak openly, and there was no way Robson would walk into the dock himself.

She took a headache tablet, crawled between the sheets, and woke up an hour later.


Staunch had drawn her a mud map of the route to take to the Rouse farm, and Pip found it after only one false alarm. Not bad in the dark, she told herself, given the intricate twists and turns of the unmade roads and the lack of signs.

She felt uneasy about the reception awaiting her after the treatment Jesse Rouse meted out in the Greek café, but Harold Staunch had undertaken to arrive early and smooth her path, and he was a formidable ally.

A smile on the face of Mrs Irene Rouse confirmed that Staunch had done his job, even though Jesse himself remained aloof and unco-operative but, thankfully, polite enough. They gathered around a long table in the kitchen that seemed to be the centre of the household and everyday family life. The two children were already in bed in a sleep-out she’d noticed on the way in.

The kitchen was a large shabby room scattered with sundry uncomfortable straight backed chairs and warmed by a wood stove at one end. One of those 1940s kitchen dressers with doors decorated in tinted glass stood in a corner. There was a discoloured porcelain sink and several pieces of damp washing hung limp on a piece of rope suspended from two of the walls.

Everything wooden was painted a sickly pale green, all of it chipped, and the linoleum floor was cracked and faded. The Rouse family was doing it hard.

Irene Rouse used the corner of a kitchen towel to wipe away her tears as she told the city reporter the story of the day her son died. She looked more attractive without her squashed felt hat. Her mousy coloured long hair was caught back with a comb, and this showed off her high cheekbones. In her sorrow, sitting in her kitchen and dredging her memories in an obliging way for a stranger, there was something quite noble about her.

Pip adjusted the volume control on her tape recorder to counter the softness of the woman’s voice.

‘There couldn’t be anything more horrible, Miss Holmes. Jimmy lay there so still and white, and I couldn’t do anything. That long ride to the hospital was a nightmare. It went on and on and when it finally ended it was too late …’

In her anguish Irene Rouse screwed the towel into a knot. Her eyes were liquid pain.

‘It is madness to close down our little hospital when other help is so far away … We must do something to make it safe for our kids. They say helicopters … Anything, so long as not one more child dies.’

‘Politicians do take note of publicity Mrs Rouse. The paper will do what it can. Tell me about Jimmy … what sort of a boy was he?’

Mrs Rouse took a deep breath and looked at her husband. Jesse was standing, his back to the wood stove, supporting himself on the railing of one of the chairs. His knuckles were white, ringing support from the wood. Harold Staunch rose from his own chair and walked three steps to place a reassuring hand on the farmer’s broad shoulders.

At that moment Pip became aware that another person had entered through the door behind her. She twisted and oddly felt no surprise to see that a man was standing silently in the darkened doorway. The fellow had let himself in, and there was no warning of his approach.

It was Con Robson.

‘Mr. Robson, you’re here …’ Jesse Rouse offered Robson the chair closest to the stove. It seemed the solicitor was expected.

Pip calmly leaned over and put a new tape in her machine. The small click she made as the tiny cassette went home was thunderous in the quiet room.

Irene Rouse broke the silence again. ‘Umm, Miss Holmes, this is our solicitor, Mr. Con Robson.’

‘Oh, Mr. Robson and I have met.’ Pip hoped her touch of irony got through. At the time she felt that Robson approved of Gazza’s little scalding effort at the football meeting. He’d stood beside the mechanic, impervious to her discomfort.

‘Mr. Robson is here to look after our interests. He is advising us in our dealings with the insurance company …’ Jesse Rouse had an edge to his voice.

Con Robson sat there in the chair, sullen and avoiding visual contact, making no effort to acknowledge her presence.

Pip decided to ignore him, and continued the interview.

‘So young Jim was good at football Mrs Rouse?’

‘He was very good Miss Holmes. One of the best in the team. He was a popular boy …’

‘I understand he hit his head on the post on his way to scoring a goal …’

‘That’s enough Miss Holmes!’ Robson’s voice boomed across the room at her. It was a strong, deep voice; articulate — a complete contrast to his appearance.

‘What do you mean by that?’ she countered.

‘Talk about how the accident occurred might very well compromise my clients. I don’t want you to take this path.’ He turned to Jesse Rouse: ‘In fact I can’t see anything positive in this. I’ve been against any dealings with the media right from the beginning …’

‘But Miss Holmes’ newspaper wants to help with our community health problems. It’s for the good of the town.’ Irene seemed stronger since talking about her troubles, but Pip didn’t like the mother’s chances of changing the attitude of this man.

‘Come on Robson. Let’s have a bit of co-operation.’ Staunch’s nose had become quite red. ‘Look at the wider picture man.’ At least he was on her side.

‘I see your point, but I’ll be very careful. There are ways and means …’ Inside, Pip was losing patience. She leant forward on her chair. ‘I’d really like to help. It’s personal in a way too. A sort of act of forgiveness to the town — on behalf of my mother.’

Staunch looked startled. ‘Your mother?’

‘It was a long time ago. Before I was born in fact. My mother was raped here when she was a young woman. Raped by a number of men in bush a few miles away.’

Pip made sure she looked straight at Robson as she said this. He remained absolutely without emotion.

She knew she’d been reckless, but what the hell.

‘How awful,’ Irene Rouse’s eyes were wide.

Staunch was looking thoughtful. ‘What year was this Miss Holmes?’

‘July 1975 Harold.’

‘Yes, I remember the case.’

Two of the men were sentenced to gaol for it …’ Pip’s gaze remained on Robson, gauging his reactions. There were still none. He was as unreadable as a blank page.

Not long afterwards Pip took her leave of the Rouse household and its guests. Robson got his way and halted the interview, but she judged there was enough material on the tape for her purposes.

She arranged to call Staunch the next day, and watched his old Mercedes Benz disappear down the road south before climbing into her own car to head north to the town and a good sleep.

Pip set off in second gear, picking slowly between occasional rocks that appeared in the badly maintained dirt track.

Thick scrub and occasional large gums crowded in on her vehicle, often blotting out her view of the way ahead. She found the turn left on Staunch’s mud map and began peering through the darkness for a T intersection that signalled the road into town.

Two headlights on high beam pierced the night behind her. Everything ahead disappeared — the road, the trees, the rocks — as the sudden intense glare robbed her of sight.

Instinctively she braked as the vehicle swept past in a deafening engine roar and cut in immediately in front of her own headlights. It was a large car. A large black Mercedes. The driver propped, triggering a bank of dazzling red brake lights within a metre of her bonnet.

Pip swerved to the left towards oblivion, and smashed into a tree. The mystery driver gunned the powerful engine and howled into the darkness.


Pip’s car had rammed a small paperbark. She lay half stunned against the steering wheel for a few minutes, and gingerly felt a painful spot on her face. She rattled around the rubbish in her glove box to find a torch, and shaking, got out of the car. The tree had punched a neat half circle in her bumper.

Pip moved around the car, shining the torch under it and at the tyres but could find no more damage. It was lucky she had been travelling slowly when that idiot did his work.

It was Robson of course. His road rage had to be some sort of threat to get her to back away from looking into the rape case. Pip was beginning to understand how the solicitor operated.

Standing there in the dark, dizziness came at her in a wave, and she threw out an arm against the car door to stop herself falling. She dropped the torch and its beam played on a heap of dead leaves at the side of the track.

Her glance left the comfort of the shaft of light and attempted to pierce the darkness. Anyone could be there watching her …

As rapidly as she could, Pip stepped into the car and slammed the door shut, locking it. Carefully, she reversed and made it to the road into town.

What now, she wondered ...

©June Saville 2008. Not to be reproduced without express written permission of the author.

GO TO EPISODE NINE

Pip's recklessness stirred up the crooked solicitor Con Robson - would you have taken such a risk in her situation? Tell me in a comment and please let me know if you are enjoying the story ...