Free Luck in the Greater West by Damian McDonald Page B

rape. She’d escaped. But nevertheless, she was a victim of rape. It was something she’d worried about, like any woman, but she’d never imagined she’d be an actual victim of it. Never.

ELEVEN
    Senior Sergeant Testafiglia motioned for his sergeant to enter the office. Sergeant Rosales hadn’t been Testafiglia’s first choice. He was Filipino, and as he was the only Asian officer he’d ever worked with, Testafiglia had been dubious about his policing skills. Statistically, there were very few Asians on the force, and Testafiglia had thought that there must be a reason for this. But it seemed the Cebuano police are trained tough and honest, and Rosales had become Testafiglia’s favourite officer on the day-shift. He was a family man, had four daughters, and knew the value of keeping family together by having rules and boundaries.
    Rosales moved in and took the seat across from his boss.
    â€”One name with priors did come up, he began.
    â€”Do we know him? Testafiglia asked.
    â€”Patrick White. We busted him for possession with intent to sell. He got eighteen months and was let out after six for good behaviour. Miss Caxaro, as you remember, was part of the set-up for his bust. The detective never revealed to her that he was a cop, but it’s more than possible this White believes she set him up. She says she visited him about an hour before the attack. She had asexual relationship with him. I think we should watch him. This could be revenge, boss. May not be linked to the other rapes. Or he could be the drug link. Supplying the drugs and even tipping off the attackers about girls who smoke marijuana.
    â€”I remember White. Unsatisfying arrest, Testafiglia said.
    â€”Yeah, didn’t say yes, didn’t say no. Could have more to hide. I suggest a surveillance. Simple day-watch to start with, no overtime.
    â€”Keep me informed. I think you’re on the right track here, Testafiglia said.

TWELVE
    Sonja’s body was the most pure, delicious, aromatic, narcotic, addictive thing. It existed just to fill him with the strongest, most insatiable appetite. But since she’d knocked on his door again, he hadn’t eaten much more than human hair. Whitey found it hard to believe when he thought too hard about it, but his luck had changed. He was lucky to have met Sonja, and incredibly lucky that she liked him. He was totally beyond understanding her existence and his unbelievably close proximity to it. There was the age difference thing. But he only thought of this when they were apart, and Sonja had never brought it up. Whitey was on the verge of having something he’d never even hoped for. A relationship where he was in love with the other person.
    She came to him daily, after school, and that was six periods too many. Sometimes they’d make love at lunchtime.
    Whitey had drugs, and more cash to buy booze and groceries than he’d ever had before, but the smell of the top of Sonja’s head was all he needed for sustenance. They lived off the richness of each other, and drank sweat. His foam mattress was heaven, and it floated above and beyond Colyton, Mt Druitt and north-east ofthere. He liked to eat her lips at the door at four-oh-two pm, and have her lower spine totally devoured by five.
    â€”Fuck me. I love you, Sonja said.
    â€”Oh, Jesus, you, he sighed.
    All that romantic shit; it was true. All those books, all those movies; the authors had gotten a whiff of Sonja. Every single mole, every single hair was love. Sonja was an eclipse. He couldn’t get enough of her, but he kept wondering: why did she keep on coming?
    He had overwhelming bouts of doubt when she wasn’t there. Was her love for him all some kind of warped practical joke to be televised after some clever editing? Or was it some other type of set-up?
    Or was she just young?

THIRTEEN
    Human Society and its Environment had been one of Sonja’s favourite classes, but she couldn’t