Timor Sea. He had been running just over an hour from Frances Bay Drive, enjoying the sunset and a smooth, easy rhythm. His breathing was even, his strides metronomic, his runners tap-tapping softly on the pavement.
At Centennial Park near Knuckey Street, the path meandered towards a dense thatch of trees. Almost past them, Fox caught a flash of movement to his left and heard a muffled yell. He stopped abruptly, turning towards the sound. Then, a cry of anguish – a woman. He moved swiftly towards the sound and saw, closer to the beach, a knot of thrashing bodies. Moving silently, he saw three men with a woman in their grasp. One had an arm around her face and over her mouth, a second was tearing her skirt from flailing legs and a third was trying hard to hold her arms while ripping her blouse open. She was resisting fiercely.
As Fox stepped into the open, her face spasmed in horror. He raised a finger to his lips and before awareness dawned, delivered a mighty kick to the head of the man who had now pulled her skirt free. As he sank without sound, the mauler ripping her blouse whirled. Another withering kick, this time to the victim’s crotch. Roaring in pain, he doubled forward and received a crushing left-right from Fox’s flashing fists. Felled, unconscious. The third man fled towards the beach. Fox overtook him in less than a dozen strides, leapt and smashed him to the ground. Effortlessly, he twisted the man’s arm and snapped the shoulder joint leaving him to scream in agony.
He ran to the woman who, with her back to a tree, shoulders heaving, breath rasping, was trying desperately to pull her skirt up. Her racking sobs sliced at Fox’s heart. In the failing light he could see her entire body violently shaking. Suddenly, she turned and vomited.
Standing back, he studied her quietly, knowing instinctively that any move to touch or comfort might accelerate her fear. When she recovered sufficiently he spoke gently.
‘Eh, you’re okay now. No one’s gunna hurt you. You’re safe.’
She seemed not to hear. Trembling, sobbing and occasionally retching, she continued to pull her skirt up.
Fox tried again. ‘You’re safe now. Can I help you? Is there someone I can take you to? Or get for you?’ His quiet voice was husky with concern.
She paused, peering through the gloom – seeing, yet not seeing him.
‘I … I ... don’t … know,’ she stuttered. ‘They just grabbed me. They punched me and dragged me down here.’
One of the men at her feet began to groan. Fox stepped forward, placed a foot on his neck and hissed, ‘Shut up. Another squeak and I’ll break your neck.’ Heavy silence filled the air.
The woman was frantically trying to fasten her skirt with a zip that obviously had broken. Her torn blouse gaped revealing a white bra. In the distance, “Broken Shoulder” moaned. Gradually, the woman quietened.
‘Are ya hurt at all?’ Fox asked.
‘No. They’d just got me here when you arrived.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ve got a massive headache from their punches though.’
Fox, from a metre or so, gazed at her intently. After a period of silence he said, ‘I know you.’
Fear surged afresh. ‘No! What do you want? I’ve never seen you before.’
‘Yeah, you have. I’m Colin Fox. You spoke up for me at the police station years ago when that prick Wildman hit me. He was investigating my sister Lucy’s death. Lucy Fox. Connors isn’t it?’
‘Lucy’s brother! Oh … oh … ’ She slumped against the tree.
Gently, Fox said, ‘You really are alright. I mean you no harm, but I’ll damage these bastards if you want.’
Connors reached towards him, took a step and stumbled over the man on the ground. Fox caught her as she fell and steadied her. When she recovered, he stepped away.
‘I can’t believe it’s you. So often I’ve thought about you. Wondered what happened to you. How can I ever thank you for this?’ She gestured towards the two men on the ground in front of her.
‘Yeah,’ Fox rasped, ‘they meant business alright. But they’re not so tough now. What do you want to do with the bastards? I can wait with ’em till you bring the coppers back if you like.’ He eyed her keenly. Even though trembling, her composure was returning.
‘That’d be good. I’m staying at a pub on the Esplanade – it’s not far. I’ll be ten or fifteen minutes, twenty at most.’
‘Go for it. I’ll be ’ere when you get back.’
‘Thanks, thanks again.’
Fox smiled in the dark. ‘That’s a change: a white sheila indebted to a black fella.’ There was wry humour in his voice. ‘Eh, ya shirt’s buggered. Do you want a lend of mine? It’s a bit sweaty but it was fresh tonight.’
She considered his offer, examined her own torn fabric then nodded. He removed his T shirt and watched as she pulled it on over her blouse.
At ten the next morning, Connors met Fox at the Darwin Police Station in Mitchell Street. The night before they had been interviewed and given copies of their statements. Connors and the offenders, three German tourists, had been medically examined and treated. The attackers were then locked up after being charged with abduction, attempted rape and assault. By the time they were through it was after midnight and the pair agreed to meet at the police station the following morning and go for lunch.
Connors arrived in a soft lime linen frock, her thick blonde hair wound into a knot on top of her head; she carried a cobalt blue shoulder bag and wore matching sandals. At thirty-eight, Caroline Connors was an attractive woman. Fox wore pressed moleskins, polished brown boots and a crimson shirt rolled to the elbows. His wavy black hair was brushed loosely. With his regular features, unusual grey eyes and smooth skin, he was a picture of vitality. Patiently, he waited in the foyer until Connors was finished and the best part of an hour later, they set off for lunch.
‘How did you sleep?’ he enquired
‘Well, all things considered, not too bad. I ached a bit and found when I showered I was covered in bruises. They must have belted me more than I realised. Men,’ she exclaimed with venom. ‘Those idiots are here backpacking from Germany. Now they’ve buggered up their holiday, their lives and the lives of their families. Too much beer – straight to their balls!’
‘Did ya call home?’
‘Yes, I phoned John this morning. We decided not to tell the kids.’
‘Ya lucky but I’m glad.’ Fox was pensive, thinking of Lucy. ‘I often wish Lucy ’ad your sort of luck.’
Immediately Connors placed a consoling hand on his arm. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘That must have been a nightmare for you – you were only ten for God’s sake. And poor little Lucy. What a tragedy.’
They walked in silence, Fox flushed with pain after vividly recalling the chapel at Sister Kate’s.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s what killed Mum.’ His voice was soft. ‘They said she was depressed. But it was us – being taken. Utter crap it was. Mum thought she ’ad no one left and nothin’ to live for. Dad was dead, Lucy was dead and I was missin’. What’s to live for? She was a good person.’
Connors
