The Martha Effect

My sense of security shattered the day a beloved grandmother of eight was brutally assaulted in the leafy Melbourne suburb of Camberwell. Why this particular grey-haired septuagenarian ignited a community, already outraged by a relentless wave of youth crime, we may never know. But many will remember where they were, what they were doing when the news story broke. Just as I will never forget, but for different reasons, reasons that still cause me to wake in a cold sweat.

     It was my week to work the night shift, and I’d come off a rough one. The hospital assigned me multiple post-op complications to monitor, plus an elderly dementia patient who was afraid of everything. I regretted placing the nurse call button in her hand by the end of the first hour of my shift. By the third, I was ready to rip the bloody thing from the wall.

     Arriving home to an empty house added to my misery. I’d run every light, hoping to catch Riley before he left for school. As I stripped off my scrubs, I cheered myself by watching the antics of Sunrise host Shirvo trying to ride a unicycle around the station’s car park.

     A glass tumbler sat on my dresser. The blocks of ice I’d placed in it, moments before dousing them with a two-finger measure of Jameson, were half melted but still gave me the satisfying musical clink I loved, bumping against the sides and each other, as I raised the glass to my lips.

     Before you judge my early morning drinking, remember I’d come off a night shift; this was my after-work wind-down drink. I only have one and only on the mornings I have nowhere to be. My goal for the day was to clear the mountain of washing, complete an online grocery order, and sleep for a solid six hours.

     Tasting notes of malt and vanilla, I took another, larger sip of whiskey. The back of my throat burned as I turned away from the ad break to pull on my loungewear, aka my favourite two-year-old track pants and a moth-holed band tee that once belonged to my ex.

     Sunrise segued into the eight-thirty news as I pulled the tee over my head. The lead story was about an overnight home invasion and violent attack on seventy-nine-year-old Martha Knight. A headshot of a grey-haired woman wearing a tonal purple twinset, multiple strings of pearls and round black glasses, appeared on screen.

     She had a kind face, bright eyes with a sprinkling of mischief, and a smile that drew you in and made you want to listen to every word that passed her lips. She was a picture-perfect grandmother. My heart ached for her family.

     A strong-jawed, dark-haired man wearing a police uniform appeared on screen. He began sharing the details of the home invasion. Hardened as the man appeared, his voice caught as he spoke of the family’s distress at finding Martha injured and bleeding in her home after she failed to answer a call from her son. She’d been struck around the head multiple times and was in surgery. His eyes narrowed and his voice deepened as he committed to finding the assailants and bringing them to justice.

     As I lowered myself onto my bed, my right hand pressed against my chest, security camera footage of three young men, wanted in connection with the crime, appeared on screen.

     The image was grainy, and I leaned forward to get a closer look, resting my elbows on my knees. Three youths were captured running away from Martha’s house. Two ran to the front metal gate and quickly scaled up and over it.

     A third ran to the side fence. Trees and shrubs obscured the camera’s view, and he disappeared behind them. But as he climbed over the fence, his right foot flung out, and the camera’s light flashed on an emblem on the side of his shoe.

     My jaw dropped as the camera zoomed in on the distinctive footwear. The police officer referred to the limited-edition Nike sneaker and asked for the public’s help to identify the owner. The number for Crime Stoppers flashed on the screen before they moved on to the next news story.

     The world around me fell silent as I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing. I knew that shoe. I’d bought that shoe, against my better judgement, after saving up for months, going without my favourite brand of coffee and skipping my last two hair appointments.

     I bought the limited-edition Golden Finch sneakers for Riley’s sixteenth birthday. They were part of Nike’s campaign to save the endangered Gouldian Finch. Riley loves birds, always has, thanks to his grandfather who would take him twitching on the weekends and during school holidays. They would spend hours searching for birds and then filling in their twitcher journal with the details of which birds they saw, and when and where they saw them.

     Grandad Jack died suddenly last year, and overnight Riley stopped talking about birds. He stopped talking about a lot of things and becomes angry when I ask him to open up to me. Last month, I suggested we go twitching up in the ranges and he laughed in my face.

     Despite his withdrawal, Riley was still doing well in school, and when his mid-semester report arrived, showing he was on track for high grades across all subjects, I rewarded him with a new pair of sneakers.

     The limited-edition Nikes called to me. I hoped if I bought them for Riley, maybe he’d feel a connection to his old self and he’d find his way back to me.

     Now the sneakers were on the news, captured at the scene of a violent crime, placing a grandmother in hospital and sending the police on the hunt for three young men.

     We’d been doing it tough after Dad died. Without him around to share the load of caring for Riley, things had started to slip. Riley’s father was rarely in the picture. He lived interstate, had a new family and a young wife who didn’t like to share. Riley only saw him a few times a year.

     In April, I’d missed seeing Riley’s basketball team play in the finals because of work. A month later, I was late to a school concert due to the death of a patient and missed Riley’s solo. Riley said he understood; he knew how hard I worked. I thought we were doing okay, not great, but okay.

     The night shift week was the toughest after losing Dad. Riley had to get himself to and from school every day, and he was home alone for five nights. Assuring me he was fine with it, he said he didn’t mind riding his bike to school, even when it rained. He would often stay back after school and do his homework; he was in a study group, or at least he said he was. I didn’t make it to the last parent-teacher interviews; they clashed with my shift, and the report didn’t give me any reason to be concerned.

     Fear for my son coursed through my veins, and I needed to do something, anything.

     Unable to remember if I’d checked for messages, I ran to the kitchen for my phone. There were none. Sliding right, I checked my news app. Martha’s attack was the top story. I tapped on the comments.

     There were hundreds of them. Some wished Martha a quick recovery, others sent messages of hope and strength, but the majority expressed anger, fear, and frustration. With the police, for not doing enough to keep communities safe. With the government, for not implementing laws that kept repeat young offenders off the street. With parents, for not keeping their children at home, for not offering enough guidance, for not doing their jobs.

     Then there were the messages that threatened revenge, that spoke of “taking matters into their own hands” and of “showing these young thugs what discipline looked like.”

     My stomach churned. Was I one of those parents? Was I failing my son? It was true; I didn’t know where he was or what he did after school when I was working. But I’d raised him right. I’d set a good example, given him boundaries and a positive male role model. Grandad Jack was tough but fair. He spoke to Riley about making good choices and about the true meaning of masculinity. There’d been nothing toxic about Dad or the way he’d loved me and Riley.

     But then it was just the two of us. I was doing the best I could.

     ‘I should never’ve bought him those bloody sneakers.’

     Dashing through the kitchen and back down the hall to where the bedrooms are, I threw Riley’s door open. A cloud of stale air hit me in the face. Moving slowly around the room, pushing piles of teen detritus aside with my foot, I searched for the Nikes. On my hands and knees, I looked under his bed, behind his curtains, and in his wardrobe.

     The Nikes were not there.

     I knew Riley couldn’t wear them to school, so if they weren’t here, where were they? And was Riley wearing them?

     Still on my knees, I raised my face to the ceiling. ‘Dad? If you can hear me, I need your help.’

     My dad always knew what to in a crisis, was always calm and considered. God, I missed him. Tears rolled down my cheek. I roughly brushed them away with the back of my hand.

     ‘I know, Dad. There’s no time for tears.’

     A check of my watch showed it was coming up to the nine o’clock news. I rushed back to my room and held my breath as I waited for the news to begin.

     The lead story was a recap of the attack; then the image changed, and two men and a woman appeared on screen. They were introduced as Martha’s children. The older of the two men addressed the camera, asking for calm, asking people to let the police do their job.

     “This is not the time for vigilantism, for hate,” he said. “It’s a time to come together as a community, to hold each other up, not rip each other apart. This is not what our mother would want.” He asked us to pray for Martha.

     The police officer stepped into view and spoke about attacks on young men across the Mornington Peninsula. One had his arm broken by a group of residents who were walking the streets armed with cricket bats. Another was in surgery after being dragged off his bike and assaulted whilst on the way to school. He was wearing sneakers similar to those captured by the security camera.

     My head spun. I couldn’t think clearly, panic took over.

     Was Riley the one in surgery? Or was he hiding, on the run from the police? Should I call the school and ask them to check if Riley is in class? Should I call the police? If Riley is involved, I need to speak to the police, make them understand he wasn’t a risk to the community, that there must be a misunderstanding. He’s a good kid who works hard in school. He wants to go to university to get out of this suburb, to make something of his life. But what if I’m wrong? Riley shared so little of himself with me, how well did I know him?

     I raised a pillow to my face and screamed.

     What would you have done if it were your child?

     With shaking hands, I walked into the hall, pulling my phone from my back pocket. I tapped the phone app. That was when I found them. The Nikes. By the front door, tucked neatly behind Riley’s twitching backpack, Dad’s binoculars stuck out of the front pocket. There was a note sitting on top of the pack. I squatted to read it.

‘Can we go twitching this Saturday?'