A Mother's Story

by Rosie Batty

  I finally told Luke I had no other choice than to ask him to go directly to his dad and tell him he really wanted to go to England. It was the first time I had ever purposefully put that sort of pressure on Luke, but I was desperate.

  A day before we were to fly, Greg finally relented, scribbling four words on a plain white piece of paper: ‘I give my permission’.

  Miraculously, the passport officials approved the application and we were off. I arrived at the airport a bundle of nerves. Once again, Greg had managed to manipulate me to the point of breakdown. As the plane lifted off, I felt a burden drop from my shoulders – and was hit by a moment’s clarity. Getting away had been almost impossible: but mustering the willpower to get on the plane and come back was going to be even harder.

  As usual, a smiling Josephine was at the airport to meet us. She’d drive three and a half hours to be there and would then drive us the same distance home, something I was eternally grateful for. I all but fell into her arms. It wasn’t until I was with family, and could completely drop my guard, that I realised how exhausted I was. I spent the first few days at Dad and Josephine’s house, curled up in bed with a book: just so delighted to not have to do anything. To not be responsible. To not feel as though I was permanently on guard.

  Christmas was spent with Terry and his family. They lived in a converted barn and I remember Christmas lunch as just the warmest, most wonderful day. Luke really connected with his little cousin and deepened his relationship with Terry. It was lovely to watch him flourish under the attention of a positive male role model. At one point in the holiday, Luke returned there alone and spent a few nights in the company of his aunt, uncle and cousin. I couldn’t have been happier.

  We visited the National Space Centre in Leicester, where Luke tried his hand at being a weatherman in an interactive display: a role he hammed up as much as possible, true to form. We visited a zoo and laughed at the animals. We ate a pub meal with my brother Rob, who delighted in teaching Luke how to play pool at his local, and my brother James took Luke to a movie. Luke was in his element. He loved connecting with his uncles, and now that he was older and could hold his own he was developing a strong bond with them. In the loving glow of that unconditional love that can only come from family, I watched Luke flourish.

  Meanwhile, I revelled in the fact that I was able to forfeit all decision making to others. I wasn’t having to race from one after-school activity to another. I wasn’t worried about the business. I allowed myself to completely disconnect and it was wonderful.

  On New Year’s Eve, I took Luke to the local pub with my brother James and his friends. Many people I had known since childhood had gathered to ring in the New Year and I would have happily stayed until midnight, but Luke was fading and so we returned to Dad and Josephine’s house.

  As we nestled in together on Dad’s recliner and watched a DVD, I realised there was nowhere I would rather have been. The whole time we stayed at Dad and Josephine’s, Luke and I engaged in a sneaky game of midnight corridor-crawling. Josephine – who disapproved of Luke sharing my bed – had set up two beds in separate rooms. Each night, Luke would wait until the coast was clear then sneak down the hallway and creep under my covers. And there together we would slumber until morning, when he would sneak out of my bed and back into his own.

  Luke still had the endearing habit of needing to have his feet touch my legs before he was able to sleep. It was his routine, his comfort. And I became used to falling asleep with a pair of little feet touching me. Of course, the feet were getting bigger by the week – and we had agreed that by the time he was as tall as me, the co-sleeping arrangement would have to come to an end. He concurred, making like he didn’t care either way. But there was still enough of the little boy in him that I could tell the idea of sleeping alone in his own room was one he was going to struggle to get used to.

  It was with the heaviest of hearts that I said farewell to England and my family. It had been such a lovely holiday, not least because I had glimpsed what it would be like to have a life in which the spectre of Greg did not loom as a daily presence.

  I had talked to Luke about moving to England on a more permanent basis. But he was not in love with the idea. He had a life and friends in Australia. England was nice, and being around family was a comfort all its own, but Tyabb was his home. And I had to admit he had a point. I wanted Luke to be around family – and to be allowed to mature without Greg in his life – but I didn’t see how we would fit in, where in England we would live, and whether, in fact, we had the means or energy to pack up our life and start all over again.

  What I did know for certain was that the experience of recharging my batteries had given me a renewed sense of energy and determination. I remember saying to one of my friends in the week we returned, ‘I don’t know what is going to happen this year, but I am not having the same shit year as I had last year. I am in a really good place and I intend to stay that way.’

  *

  We arrived back from England on 16 January 2014. It was midsummer and the heat was stifling. After five weeks in England, I had forgotten how bright was the Australian sunshine and how huge was the sky. Despite my misgivings, it was nice to be home.

  I decided to take Luke to see the stage production of Grease. He moaned like hell about going to the theatre with his mother – but when he got there he loved it. I remember looking across at him in the dark, his face lit up from the reflected glow of the stage lights, and he looked so happy, so engaged – so alive.

  Loath as I was to re-engage with the mire of the Greg situation, I worried there may have been a court case in my absence, and so I contacted the police. They told me that there had in fact been a court appearance, and that Greg had failed to show up. A warrant had subsequently been issued for his arrest.

  Several months later, I would learn that, on 24 January, Greg’s housemate went to police seeking an IVO, which was subsequently granted by a magistrate. I understand that he told police that Greg had threatened to cut off his head. Because of Greg’s history of violence, four police officers were dispatched to serve the IVO papers, including an order to vacate the premises immediately. Police records from the day indicate that Greg reacted with typical belligerence, smashing a television on his way out. The senior constable in charge of the operation checked the LEAP database before arriving at the share house, but found no mention of the outstanding arrest warrant. Four policemen stood by and watched as Greg walked away.

  Here again was this specific threat of heinous violence involving a knife. Here again were police being called to serve an IVO on a man with a history of violence. Here again, when confronted, was a man quite clearly in need of professional help. And yet, here again, he was left to keep wandering the streets. At no point did anyone think I needed to know that Greg had threatened to cut off his housemate’s head. At no point, apparently, did lights start flashing or red flags appear in the multiple police or court records that existed for Greg Anderson. Child Protection, which had closed Luke’s file some four months earlier, had no idea that his father was threatening to decapitate a man. It was just another allegation recorded against a man who had committed a litany of offences, just another report to add to the ever-growing pile.

  While we had been away in the UK, I had allowed Luke to have occasional phone contact with Greg. I felt it was a fair compromise. And what possible harm could come to Luke from a father more than 16,000 kilometres away?

  But in the weeks after our return, Luke showed no interest in making contact with his dad. It was as if the time away had given him the opportunity to reflect and finally decide that he no longer wished to have his father in his life. Neither Luke nor I could have guessed what the ramifications of this shift in his attitude would be.

  *

  On the morning of Wednesday 5 February, the phone rang at home. I was surprised to hear the voice of DSC Cocking on the end of the line – it had been so long since we’d had contact.

  ‘Rosie, it�
�s Detective Cocking,’ came the voice down the phone. ‘I was wondering if you might know where Greg is living.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Detective,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘I have no idea.’ I hung up the phone, shaking my head in amazement.

  Later that day, the phone rang again. This time it was Greg. ‘Can you get Luke to call me?’ he said gruffly.

  I was taken aback. We hadn’t spoken for months. Just hearing his voice set off a wave of fear. I did my best to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Do you have a number he can call you on?’ I asked. Greg passed on a phone number.

  ‘Where are you living now, Greg?’ I asked, never expecting a reply.

  He told me the name of the street and the number of a boarding house he was staying at in Frankston, barely 20 kilometres away.

  My hand trembled as I wrote it down.

  Minutes later I was back on the phone to Detective Cocking. ‘Andrew, it’s Rosie Batty,’ I said, my voice quavering. ‘You won’t believe who just phoned me and gave me his address.’

  I requested that DSC Cocking let a small amount of time pass between receiving this information and arresting Greg, as I didn’t want to make obvious to him that I had been the one to betray him to the police. I hung up the phone and felt relieved. At last, Greg could be intercepted at his home. Not at the cricket club, not in front of Luke and not in a way that would obviously implicate me.

  Now, a reasonable person might assume that a policeman in possession of information about the whereabouts of a wanted man would take steps to immediately arrest that man. You would think perhaps a phone call might be made to the local police station, an order to arrest might be issued across the radio airwaves or even an email sent informing nearby police officers to attend the nominated address and apprehend the offender. This was, after all, a man facing eleven criminal charges who had no less than four warrants out for his arrest.

  But no. No action was taken. DSC Cocking would later testify at the inquest that when he spoke to his superior, no decision was reached on what to do with the information I had provided them. He would tell a court that he decided not to arrest Greg in a timely manner out of concerns for my safety. He would tell the same court he thought he’d received the information a week later than he did, intimating that by honouring my request not to take action immediately left precious time for any meaningful intervention. My biggest mistake? Believing that the police were about to arrest Greg with a sense of urgency.

  *

  So it was with a certain amount of shock when, during Luke’s cricket match at Tyabb oval the following Saturday, I looked up from my duties helping with mid-game refreshments to see Greg striding around the perimeter of the oval towards us. I tried not to show my shock, instead continuing to tend to the team as they sheltered from the midday sun.

  Greg stood off to the side of the gaggle of kids and parents, clearly wanting to be part of proceedings, but not sure how to break in. At certain points, when Luke wasn’t batting or fielding, Greg would take him to one side and engage him in quiet conversation. I remember feeling anxious that Greg was separating Luke from his teammates. But I told myself that he hadn’t seen Luke for ages and was no doubt only snatching what little time he could to have a conversation with his son.

  I could only guess at why he hadn’t been arrested by the police. Either they had been to the boarding house and missed him there, or once again Greg had managed to squeeze through one loophole or another in the legal system I had long ago lost faith in. I thought for a moment about phoning the police, but knew it would only provoke Greg and potentially lead to yet another embarrassing and ultimately futile police intervention at cricket in front of Luke and his friends.

  Two days later, the phone rang. I was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Greg’s voice came down the line. ‘Can I speak to Luke?’

  I thought for a moment of reminding him about the terms of the IVO – how even phone contact was not allowed. But I decided against it. I called out to Luke, who emerged from his bedroom, took the phone with an air of resignation and retreated to his room, closing the door behind him.

  He re-emerged five minutes later.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked, watching as he walked, shoulders slumped, into the living room.

  ‘Dad’s really not happy,’ Luke said, plonking himself down on the couch. ‘He’s living in Frankston and he’s not happy about the people he’s living with.’

  I nodded. There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘He said he was disappointed with me for not contacting him when we got back,’ Luke continued, staring out the window.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Luke,’ I started. ‘There’s a restraining order – your dad knows that.’

  He looked across the living room at me. ‘Mum. Normally it’s me that hangs up on him, but this time he put the phone down on me.’

  He looked confused and a little worried.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  23

  12 February 5.45 pm

  As my car pulls into the gravel car park at Tyabb oval, I’m struck by what a glorious summer’s evening it is. The sky is turning a stunning cobalt as the day slips away.

  Some of the kids are practising in the cricket nets while the dads help out. I see Luke there, still playing. Then, as I get out of the car, I see Greg. He’s taking part, helping the other dads and bowling to the kids. He looks relaxed and happy. I’m pleased to see him behaving normally. Luke is happy to have him there too.

  Other kids are packing their cricket bags and heading to the car park to find their parents. I see Cameron there, one of the fathers from Luke’s cricket team – he’s trying to corral his three boys from opposite ends of the oval.

  I see Mariette, one of the other mums. She’s dressed to the nines, having attended the Mornington Cup earlier in the day. And there’s Liam, my neighbour Therese’s little boy. He’s waiting by the picnic table, near the kid’s playground, watching for his mum to arrive. I ask him if he is okay, if his mum is coming. Therese is never late. He answers, telling me that she’s on her way, and sure enough, here she is. I joke with Therese about how it’s usually me that’s running late, and we stand and chat for a while. I think how nice it is to be part of a community: to be known. This is my home now; these are my people.

  I’m listening to Therese speak and watching out of the corner of my eye where Luke is and where Greg is.

  Luke comes running over to me, his face flushed from an afternoon of cricket practice. He looks full of life. ‘Is it okay if I have a few extra minutes with Dad?’ he asks.

  ‘I guess so,’ I hear myself reply. ‘But five minutes is all. We’ve got to get home soon.’

  I return to my conversation with Therese. After a minute or so, I’m suddenly aware that I can’t see Luke or Greg. I interrupt Therese mid-sentence. ‘I can’t see Luke or Greg,’ I say to her. ‘Greg knows better, he’s not supposed to take Luke anywhere.’ I’m not panicked, but I am starting to feel anxious.

  ‘It’s all right, Rosie,’ Therese replies, looking over towards the nets. ‘They’re over there.’

  The nets are 50 metres away, partially obscured by a toilet block. From where I stand, I can make out Luke, in his yellow polo shirt, hitting balls as they come to him. He has a look of concentration on his face. Greg is bowling to him, out of my line of sight, obscured by the toilet block.

  Therese heads home and I call Natasha to invite her over for dinner. While we’re talking, I look away from the cricket nets for no more than twenty seconds. As I hang up the phone, I hear a scream. A man’s scream. Guttural, agonised, primal. A scream of pure anguish.

  Everything starts to move in slow motion.

  Panicking, I run towards the cricket nets, where I see Greg hunched over Luke, who is lying limp on the ground. Greg is cradling Luke’s head, rocking on his haunches, wailing.

  Oh my God, I think. He’s done a fast bowl to Luke and hit him in the head. He’s knocked him out. The stupid bastard ha
s knocked him out. He’s really hurt him. He’s really hurt him.

  And my boy, limp in Greg’s arms! My first thought is to get an ambulance. My boy is hurt. He needs help, and so I start running towards the clubhouse. Stumbling across the lawn, I punch at my mobile phone, trying to call triple zero. But in the panic, and with my head swimming, I don’t have the coordination. I see Cameron and start screaming at him.

  ‘Luke’s hurt! Luke’s been hit! You have to get an ambulance here now! It’s bad! I know it’s really bad!’

  I’m telling myself it’s just a knock in the head. Stupid fucking Greg has bowled too fast and knocked him out. He’s just been hit by a cricket ball. I repeat it over and over in my head like a mantra.

  Greg is there, Greg has the situation in hand, my job is to find help.

  I can’t stand still. I don’t know where to go. Every part of my being wants to be with Luke, to be holding him, tending to him and telling him everything is going to be fine. But I can’t bring myself to go near him. I’m terrified to get close. Terrified to learn the truth. Somewhere, in the depths of my consciousness, I’m thinking that if I can somehow keep distance between me and the reality of what has happened over there in the cricket nets, then it’s a truth I can deny. As long as I haven’t seen it – it’s not real.

  My boy. My baby boy.

  And so I run. I’m screaming as I run. Confused parents watch as I run in a blind panic, as far across to the other side of the car park as it’s possible to go. Right over to the wire fence that separates Tyabb oval from the adjacent paddock. Beside a tree, under an oversized bush – I need to put as much physical space as possible between me and those cricket nets.

  There I stand, watching the road in a state of panic, waiting for the ambulances to arrive. Moaning, rocking, willing this all to be a nightmare from which I will wake.

  I call Therese, whose car I saw pull out ten minutes before. I’m not sure why. I figure she’s close by, she can maybe help direct the ambulance. Where is that ambulance? Why is it taking so long? My call goes through to voicemail.