Chapter Three

Over the next few days, I avoided Jack. I knew I should call the police about this – hell, how many of these type calls had I taken? How many women had I taken statements from? These complaints of harassment and abuse were very serious. I knew what he did was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the police, or even to confront him. So I did nothing.

How many men had I confronted as a cop? How many people had I put away? How many times had I responded to a domestic incident as a cop? Gone in there and sorted shit out. Now, I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone or go into the station to do anything about it.

On top of my resistance to do anything, I also was spending long hours at work, then long hours inside my house. I was avoiding not just Jack, but a Melbourne heatwave.

Something about heatwaves made me feel very Australian. When I was outdoors, all I could hear was cicadas. Walking down to the local shops, I would wear nothing but shorts and a singlet top. It felt like my childhood, but so much worse because when you’re a kid you don’t have any responsibilities, you can just run under the sprinklers, you can play in your kiddie pool, you can muck about and don’t have to worry about being at work, or being presentable.

I imagine what time away from here would be like, if I moved somewhere that didn’t have these kinds of heatwaves, that didn’t have this crazy lifestyle of everyone hiding inside for days to avoid the heat.

This heatwave peaked with days at forty degrees. On one of those days, Jerome gave me a call. “Hey, how are you holding up?” He asked me.

I laughed, “What do you mean how am I holding up? Are you doing the ring around all the old relatives? Make sure they’re all alive?” I asked, my tone sarcastic, but really having missed spending time with Jerome and all the boys down at the station.

“No.” Jerome said, “I don’t have any old relatives, only you young bastards giving me a hard time!”

We both laughed at that. My chest was filled with the love I always felt for Jerome. I held him dear to my heart, and when I was away from him I wouldn’t feel an absence, but when we were talking again, I would feel that absence stronger than I could imagine.

It was strange, too, chatting to him like this when I felt the weight of Jack and what he had done inside of my chest.

Before I had a chance to stop myself I was asking Jerome, “Want to grab a beer together?”

“Of course!” Jerome readily agreed, “Same place as last time?” He asked.

I thought for a moment, did Jack say he was a regular there? Did I want to risk running into him?

“No.” I told him. “I have another place, I’ll text you the address.”

“Cool.” He said. “When are you free?”

I looked around my kitchen as if it would have the answers for me then told him earnestly, “I’m free now, if you want.”

Jerome chuckled down the phone. “In this heat, you want to go outside?”

Everyone at the station knew how much I hated the heat. They were all used to me complaining when I had to go out on patrol, or to respond to a call. Jerome’s voice when he said that though wasn’t the teasing one I had been used to from my colleagues, but the concerned one of someone who knew me well and didn’t want me to feel uncomfortable. My heart swelled with love for my friend then.

“Of course I do!” I told him teasing, “Don’t you want to go out in this?”

“It’s just –“ He began, “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll meet you in an hour?”

“No worries.” I said, feeling a little bad for not heeding his careful warnings. Yes, I had to go out in this.

We hung up the phone and I went searching for clothes that could withstand this heat. I had seen on the news (which every Melbournian secretly only watches for the weather anyway) that the heat wave should break either this evening or tomorrow. They thought this evening with a storm, but no-one ever knew with Melbournian weather. I hadn’t watched when this evening it would break, but was pretty sure we could chill out in a beer garden until the storm. It was only two pm at the moment anyway.

3pm rolled around and I was standing outside a less frequented local pub. I checked the signage to make sure it was the same one I had hurriedly looked up online before walking through the big front door. Inside I found the bar and ordered two drinks, knowing Jerome was always on time and would be along shortly.

Before the pints had even hit the bar mat, Jerome was pulling me into one of his bear hugs and we were both laughing and saying our excited hellos.

The barman roughly placed the drinks down, spilling too much of them. I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes and tell him to re-fill our pints and handed him my card with some instructions before turning back to Jerome.

We chatted animatedly for a while, catching up on all the things going on in both our lives. As we chatted, we got settled into this pubs beer garden (or rather, it’s alfresco area on the street).

It would be many, many beers until I felt comfortable enough to let Jerome know exactly why I had asked him here. Even as I told him, I felt ashamed that I was now one of those victims. I was one of the victims of crimes that cops hear too much of and that secretly (or not so secretly) we hate dealing with because the crimes are too messy. Crimes committed by intimate partners are difficult to prosecute and even more difficult for victims to distance themselves from. I was telling him as a friend, but also as a friend who is a fellow cop. I needed to talk to someone who understood who I was as a friend, but also someone who could give me the kind of advice I knew I needed to hear.

“I don’t know what to do.” I confessed even as I knew that I should be doing, “I really like this guy, but why is he breaking into my house?”

Jerome shook his head at that, in disbelief. He didn’t have an answer for me. “Why didn’t you report him?” Was all he asked.

I saw that look in his eye, that look I had given plenty of domestic violence survivors when I was on the force. Immediately, I felt my guts churn. I didn’t want to be one of those women. I wasn’t one of those women. I was no victim, and I wasn’t going to let him get away with thinking of me as one. This had happened to me, this wasn’t who I was.

I was struggling against myself more than I was against Jerome. I was struggling against the judgements I had made as a cop, that these situations were ‘too hard’ to deal with, that the victims were tragic and there was only so much that could be done to help them. I felt my hopelessness on both sides as I considered the issue. The hopelessness of a victim and the hopelessness of knowing that the system couldn’t fix this for me. But then I reminded myself – I had to keep reminding myself – that this wasn’t as bad as other incidents I had dealt with. That he had broken into my home and robbed me of my sense of safety and privacy but that he hadn’t been hitting me, at least.

“Hey listen,” Jerome told me, “Go home and check he hasn’t stolen anything, then report it. I can take the report if you want.”

“No you can’t!” I reminded Jerome feeling a little hysterical at the mention of Jack stealing from me although I didn’t think I was showing it. “Conflict of interest. I have to report to someone I don’t know.”

Jerome’s face was tight as he let out a tense sigh. “Sure. You do that. Just report.”

Then nothing more was said about it, the conversation moved on naturally – or rather, we both let it move on because we both felt uncomfortable – and we got back to our laughing and joking, although there was a tense undercurrent for the rest of the night.

When we finished our last drinks (because the bar had stopped serving) Jerome walked me to a taxi and as I got in he said his goodbyes and reminded me, “You check the house, then you report. Okay young lady?” His voice was deadly serious. Something in it let me know there was only one way to handle this. I simply nodded and let him close the taxi’s door.

The following day, I woke with the worst handover ever and, checking the house, found that there were a few things missing. Or, that I could see anyway.

That cool change that was supposed to come yesterday hadn’t come, the weather people had been wrong. So, I suffered in the heat, trying to drink as much water as I could manage while checking the house.

Some of my jewellery (well, all of it) was gone, some money I had left on my bookshelf was also gone. As I looked around, I started to realise that someone else had been in my house, and I hadn’t even known it. There was no way Jack could have stolen this stuff when he was over. We had been together (having sex, kissing, being intimate) the whole time, and I hadn’t left him alone. This couldn’t have been him. I let the thought settle inside my own mind: maybe someone else had been in here. But when?

I sat at my kitchen table, feeling stupid that I hadn’t noticed this before. How had I not noticed someone in my house? How had I only noticed anything had been stolen? How had I not noticed the door before?

I sat and let these things ferment inside of my brain. I thought about what they entailed and let the ideas bubble and goo, as it were, inside of my head. Surely there was something here I had missed. Surely there was a reason for it too. I was too close to things. I was too close to all of this to really think properly. I was too close to see what was really going on. If I had missed a second person breaking into my home, and stealing my things, then something was deeply wrong here.

As a cop, I was nothing if not thorough. I was nothing if not one hundred per cent sure of what was going on at any time. Even when I walked into strange situations, I always felt like I had a handle on things. Even as there was always surprises being a cop, I never felt like I couldn’t handle them, or like I missed big swathes of what was going on in any case. I was always in control. I always had that sense of being in control even in the dangerous profession I had worked in. Now I had lost that sense of control and it felt so wrong, so awful.

I was a good cop. How could I have missed this inside my own home?

Allowing my body to slump forward, I burled my face in my hands on the table. What was going on here? How had I missed something so huge? Was it still Jack? Could it be?

Then my phone rang. I knew who it would be without looking at the caller ID, but I looked anyway. It was Jack. He always called me a few times a day. His text messages had been more frenzied, more disturbed with each passing hour. This guy had it bad for me. I had been ignoring him since I had found my home broken into and had thought it was him. Should I keep ignoring him? The thought swam inside my head with the excitement of being able to let him back into my life.

I didn’t let the thought take hold right away though as I placed the phone face-down so I couldn’t see it, then stood up. I would have a shower, and I would go down to the station to report the break in and theft when I was done.

Taking a little longer getting ready than normal (taking longer even than I normally did when I was hungover), I finally slipped my handbag over my shoulder and headed out the door. The front door was wooden, covered by a security door. The security door was the one that had been broken into and now, for the first time since it was broken into, I was treating it gently. It was now evidence.

The thought of my own home being part of the evidence chain was bizarre. This changing of perspectives, where I was now on the way to the police station to report a crime where yesterday I was so keen to cover it up, or at least, to never have to think about it.

Police in that state of Victoria never work at their local police station for a multitude of reasons, so when I drove down to my local station, I could be sure that I could report to almost anyone here without a problem. None of them would have a conflict of interest, as they were not my former colleagues. I was fine.

When I walked in though, the first person I saw, standing right behind the desk was Jerome.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, a little confused.

Jerome turned towards me, his face impartial, until it broke into a smile. I returned his smile and walked towards him.

“I’m just relaying some info.” Jerome told me.

Without thinking through what he had just said I asked, “What? You haven’t got a phone?”

Jerome shook his head slightly. “Want to come out back and have a chat?”

I looked around the room properly for the first time now, there was a few people in here already. Someone who was getting some documents notarised by a female officer, a family waiting in one corner with a plastic bag filled with clothes, the mother looking upset. Someone in her family was in lock-up I knew as I quickly looked away, not wanting to meet her gaze. I didn’t have to deal with this heart-breaking stuff anymore, I was out of the job.

Crying mothers were always tough for me to deal with, the feeling of wanting to get away from the pending drama pushed me to nod to Jerome. “Sure.” I said.

Jerome exited through a door at the back of the desk then quickly opened the door to the side of the desk meant for civilian entrances. I walked through that door and came out back.

There were some interview rooms out there, and I half didn’t expect him to take me in there considering the circumstances – I was an ex-cop after all – but he did. He took me in the interview room and offered me a drink, normal procedure. Before he had a chance to list drinks I took the tea option. Tea was good, it would take him a bit longer to get ready than a coke and gave me a moment to myself.

Even as I knew I wasn’t reporting Jack, I still felt uncomfortable being here, like I really was betraying him. I had to shake the feeling, I was being silly.

Jerome returned and placed my tea before me then sat opposite, his eyes round and sad. I sipped the tea and stared at him. I knew the importance of silence in police questioning, but I didn’t think that was what he was doing to me now. I had nothing to confess, and this wasn’t questioning. I was here to report a crime which I had been the victim of. A crime I knew I couldn’t report to Jerome as the old ‘conflict of interest’ card was a problem.

“So,” He began after a few too many beats for my comfort, “You decided to report the break-in then?”

I nodded, placing my tea down on the table carefully. The Styrofoam cup starting to get a little too warm to hold anyway. “Yes, I am here to report.” I said, the words feeling a little unwelcome as they came out of me. I didn’t want to do this, and he knew it. Cops always knew when someone was reporting reluctantly, and it was our job to get them around to the side where they were happy to report, where they felt heard and like they were in the right for reporting. We did this so if we needed them in court later, they would appear without a problem. We also did this because victims of crime needed to feel like they were doing the right thing, and to feel believed and validated. Cops weren’t the bad guys, after all.

This was different though, talking to my mate and former colleague. I felt the sinking suspicion that there was more going on here. If there wasn’t, I would just report to one of the other beat cops. He wasn’t able to take my statement, so I wasn’t totally sure why he wanted me here.

The tension held in the air as we stared at one another. Then, Jerome finally broke it by looking away then back at me before telling me, “I’m not taking your statement today.”

“I figured.” I said a little too stubbornly, as I sized him up. “Of course you were never going to.”

Jerome nodded at that, “I was, but we’ve had new information.”

He leaned forward, but I stayed exactly where I was, sitting up straight in my hard plastic chair.

“The information we have, is that your boyfriend Jack – “ He began, but I cut him off.

“-He is not my boyfriend.” I said, a little too quickly. Jerome gave me a smile I knew too well then, it was like a shark smiling at you. He was touching up against the bad cop routine he used to pull when he questioned people. I ignored it. I knew better than to bite or even acknowledge it.

“Sure, he’s not your boyfriend. The guy you’re fucking, whatever.” Jerome told me, with a flick of the wrist, as if he was pushing the semantics of what constitutes a boyfriend aside just then.

“What about Jack?” I asked.

Jerome shook his head at me, “We can’t find anything on him. His records clean.” He told me.

“So?” I asked, “This could have been a first offence. Besides, I don’t know if this was him.”

Jerome had been looking somewhere over my shoulder then, deep in thought, when he looked back at me at my words. “What?” He asked.

“My house was broken into already, some things were stolen. But the whole time he was there, he was with me. I don’t think it was him. He wasn’t away from me long enough to take anything.” I told Jerome.

The tension loosened as Jerome sat back in his chair and stared at me long and hard. I knew he was letting the information sit with him. He often did this when we found something big that needed to be handed on to detectives. He would consider our evidence and if it was worth telling detectives or not. Of course he always did, he had to. But he would consider every piece of information before handing it on none the less. He would take his time with his cases unless they were time sensitive because he wanted to solve them himself if he could.

“Your house was broken into already?” He asked.

I nodded, “Yes, it was.” I told him.

“So you’re telling me that he didn’t do it?” He asked me.

The question made me feel uncomfortable, I searched for the right words, “I don’t know who did it. I just know he can’t have stolen from me when I was right there.” I told him.

“Okay,” Jerome said indulgently, “So, you’re saying that someone broke into your house, stole some things, then later your boyfriend came by and just walked in a dodgy door that had been broken into and he didn’t even notice or say anything?”

I nodded slightly. “Maybe.”

Jerome heaved a giant sigh and sat back in his chair again. “So, who is the thief then?” He asked the question as if this was a detective novel or movie we were discussing, not my own life that had been impacted by crime.

Rolling my eyes and shaking my head I told him, “I’m not a cop anymore, Jerome. That’s your job!”

My words had stopped him in his tracks, and he’d nodded slightly then before telling me, “of course. I’m sorry.”

“So treat it like any other crime, Jerome! Send a team around to investigate!” I was getting mad now, and my tone was difficult to keep in check. I knew I wouldn’t be treated like this if I wasn’t an ex-cop, and that Jerome was only being difficult because I was. I knew I deserved better, like any other civilian. So I sat there, staring at him and he stared right back at me.

Jerome nodded his head, stood up and walked out of the room. It was about ten minutes before a female cop appeared.

“Hi.” She said, “I’m Amanda, Jerome sent me to talk to you. Is it okay if I sit down?”

I nodded, and Amanda took the seat facing me where Jerome had just been sitting. I looked her over, she was a detective in business casual. Good, I was being taken seriously now.

Amanda explained everything to me as if I was any other civilian. Telling me all about the system and how it worked, explaining why she needed to take a statement, what would happen with it, that they would send a team around to my house to take any evidence I had, etc.

I nodded as she told me everything as if I was any normal civilian. I didn’t want to let her know I had been a cop, and guessed from her behaviour that she didn’t already know. I knew letting her know that would not help me, and besides, I kind of liked the kid glove treatment we gave to civilians rather than the bullshit I’d just received from Jerome. I needed some kid gloves right now.

When we were done with the statement (it took way longer than I remember any of my statements talking), Amanda made arrangements to come over that afternoon with a team to take evidence. I nodded and stood up, I would have a chance to go home, do some clearing up of anything around the place from when I was in the force so they wouldn’t know I had been a cop too and be ready for their forensics team right away.

Right on time, an unmarked car pulls up in my drive away and two people from the forensics team climb out. They introduce themselves then ask if they can start collecting evidence. I tell them that it’s fine and they go about their marry way, asking me questions as they go.

Within half an hour, Jerome and Amanda are getting out of another unmarked car and are pulling me aside. Jerome takes the lead and tells me he suspects he knows who did this, after reading my statement.

In my gut, I have the strangest feeling that he knew all along, and that this was all part of some game he was playing. Perhaps because I am an ex-cop reporting, rather than just a civilian, I am caught between what would happen if this happened to a cop and what would happen if this happened to a civilian. If it were a cop, they would tell me everything because we all work together. Nothing would be left in the dark. If it were a civilian, they would keep me out of all the mess and only ask me for a statement and maybe to appear in court if I needed to give a statement and be questioned there, too.

But here I was, in the weird middle ground and they didn’t know how to treat me. I didn’t mind too much, as I wanted to know more of what was going on with the case than most civilians found out, but I didn’t want to appear like I was pushing for more information than I deserved. If it was volunteered by an old colleague, however, who was I to argue?

“So, who was it then?” I asked and Jerome shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter yet, I just have a hunch. We’ll see what these guys find out.” He told me, pointing a thumb towards the forensics guy as he dusted my front door for finger prints.

“Sure, no worries.” I told him, trying to sound calmer than I felt.

There was plenty more going on here my gut told me, but I knew better than to jump the gun. So I didn’t. We just discussed what I had said in my statement and Amanda told me she hadn’t known I had been a cop.

“Do I hide it that well?” I joked, she shook her head.

“You don’t.” She told me, “But I didn’t think cop, I thought you might have been military or something.”

I nodded at her words and offered them both coffee, when they said no I laughed with them about how we weren’t allowed to accept coffee from civilians as they might poison us, or whatever. I never had, having a bunch of really good excuses up my sleeve for whenever it was offered. Jerome made a mock-guilty face and told us he had, but wouldn’t tell us when.

“I just did it the once.” He told us, and I was surprised that he had broken protocol even that one time. Something in his face told me not to press the issue, so I didn’t even as I was hell curious.

“So are you going to call him then?” Jerome asked me when Amanda went to help one of the forensics people in the bedroom.

I looked around us to check they were all out of earshot before I told him, “I think I have to.”

“Well, you don’t have to!” Jerome said in a tone that told me I was being a little too dramatic.

Shaking my head as if to dislodge the smile that had appeared on my face at the thought of getting in touch with Jack again I told him, “No, I don’t have to. I want to.”

“That’s better!” He told me.

Amanda appeared from the bedroom then and started walking towards Jerome. They shared a smile and Jerome turned to me, “We should go now. You let me know how you go with your fella!”

I nodded and they were out the door in no time at all. Shortly after, the forensics team were gone. With a few bags of evidence, a lot of photos on their camera and some finger prints lifted from a few places around the home.

After they were all gone, I sunk down into my couch and heaved a sigh of relief. If this wasn’t Jack, there was no reason I couldn’t give him a call now. I let that play out in my head though before I picked up the phone, what I would say, how I would say it.

Then, I picked up the receiver and dialled his number. He picked up on the second ring and sounded surprised yet happy to hear my voice. It had been ten days with no word. Ten hot, stinking days of being apart and apparently I hadn’t been the only one to miss the other.

I wanted to cry then, to tell him how disappointed I was with myself for thinking it was him, but I wasn’t ready to tell him that, or to tell him anything at all. I just knew I needed him and I needed the space between us to shorten. I needed to be close to him again. My heart heaved with the need to be close, to be intimate, to touch him and hold him and tell him how much I missed him and how deeply I cared about him.

“Can we meet? I want to talk.” I told him and he agreed readily. I was picking up my handbag and running for the door. I was going to see him, we were going to make up. This was over. This whole awful drama was over and we were going to put it behind us.