Alan Penny, though, who knew the
most rugby lore. He fed us the statistics about the
Springboks: he could recite the scores from test
matches going back twenty years. The names of the
great players rolled off his tongue and he could recall
even the most obscure rules. This was ironic, because
in the course of an actual game Al was next to useless.
He played for the school's Under Sixteen B team, but
even then was often relegated to reserve. When he
did get on the field he ran along the left wing, at the
peripheries of the game, without purpose or intent.
He was often at odds with the angle of the ball, or
sometimes even the entire direction of play. Al gave
the impression that he was someone out for a jog who
had unexpectedly found himself in the middle of a
rugby match. When the ball was inadvertently passed
to him, Al's fingers were made of butter. Nevertheless,
as our clippings about Lucy began to yellow and curl,
Al gathered together all the information he could
about the impending Springbok tour.
The second attack happened in broad daylight and
on a weekday — to be accurate, at three forty-five
on Monday the twenty-seventh of February. Tracy
Templeton, Matt's youngest sister and the last of our
history teacher's seven children, was walking home
from school with her best friend Jenny Jones. They
were both eleven and had just moved up to form one
at South Brighton Primary, which went up to form
two. (Ninety percent of the kids went from there to
New Brighton High in form three. Really it was only
the Catholics who got shipped off to town for their
high-school years.) In '81 during the first day of school
Tracy and Jenny had found themselves sitting next to
each other at the back of Mrs Shepherd's class. JJ and
TT was what they started calling each other.
In those days there were no rows of chauffeuring
mothers waiting outside the school gates come three
o'clock; instead the streets around every school in the
city were awash with kids heading home. They took
up the whole footpath with their jostling, uniformed
mêlée. Later, in the side streets, they broke off into
trios or pairs. Sometimes the groups thinned out so
much that they turned into a single kid walking home
alone. Nobody thought anything of it.
The Bridge Street Reserve is an open area as big as
a rugby field, with a kids' playground set back from
the road: a slide and a seesaw and a five-seat metal
horse that rocks backwards and forwards. There's
also the community centre and the bowling club but
they're on the far side. There are bushes and a stand
of cabbage trees that drop long leaves the council
workers have to pick up before they can mow. On the
estuary side is a stand of pine trees that, if you walk
through it, leads down to the water, or the mud if the
tide is out.
Tracy Templeton told the police she and JJ weren't
in the reserve, just walking along the road beside
it, when she heard a noise and looked up to see a
man with a dirty hat jump out at them. Before Tracy
knew what was happening he had hold of her friend.
Whether the guy was targeting Jenny Jones or he
simply grabbed the nearer girl is impossible to say.
Certainly Jenny was the smaller and by disposition
shyer. To a predator lying in wait, Jenny Jones would
have looked the easier of the two to bring down.
Tracy reported that the man at first grabbed Jenny
by the arm but quickly changed his grip so that Jenny's
back was against his chest and his left arm was across
her throat. He wrapped his free arm around Jenny's
waist and started to drag her backwards through the
gap in the bushes. He must have been strong because
he managed to lift her right off the ground, although
he was later described as 'skinny, like a big boy'. Tracy
said her friend was kicking like a non-swimmer who
had got out of her depth.
The guy could have been any age from sixteen
to seventy, Tracy admitted. She told the police that
his hat had a wide brim and was pulled down low
over his face. She got the impression that
most rugby lore. He fed us the statistics about the
Springboks: he could recite the scores from test
matches going back twenty years. The names of the
great players rolled off his tongue and he could recall
even the most obscure rules. This was ironic, because
in the course of an actual game Al was next to useless.
He played for the school's Under Sixteen B team, but
even then was often relegated to reserve. When he
did get on the field he ran along the left wing, at the
peripheries of the game, without purpose or intent.
He was often at odds with the angle of the ball, or
sometimes even the entire direction of play. Al gave
the impression that he was someone out for a jog who
had unexpectedly found himself in the middle of a
rugby match. When the ball was inadvertently passed
to him, Al's fingers were made of butter. Nevertheless,
as our clippings about Lucy began to yellow and curl,
Al gathered together all the information he could
about the impending Springbok tour.
The second attack happened in broad daylight and
on a weekday — to be accurate, at three forty-five
on Monday the twenty-seventh of February. Tracy
Templeton, Matt's youngest sister and the last of our
history teacher's seven children, was walking home
from school with her best friend Jenny Jones. They
were both eleven and had just moved up to form one
at South Brighton Primary, which went up to form
two. (Ninety percent of the kids went from there to
New Brighton High in form three. Really it was only
the Catholics who got shipped off to town for their
high-school years.) In '81 during the first day of school
Tracy and Jenny had found themselves sitting next to
each other at the back of Mrs Shepherd's class. JJ and
TT was what they started calling each other.
In those days there were no rows of chauffeuring
mothers waiting outside the school gates come three
o'clock; instead the streets around every school in the
city were awash with kids heading home. They took
up the whole footpath with their jostling, uniformed
mêlée. Later, in the side streets, they broke off into
trios or pairs. Sometimes the groups thinned out so
much that they turned into a single kid walking home
alone. Nobody thought anything of it.
The Bridge Street Reserve is an open area as big as
a rugby field, with a kids' playground set back from
the road: a slide and a seesaw and a five-seat metal
horse that rocks backwards and forwards. There's
also the community centre and the bowling club but
they're on the far side. There are bushes and a stand
of cabbage trees that drop long leaves the council
workers have to pick up before they can mow. On the
estuary side is a stand of pine trees that, if you walk
through it, leads down to the water, or the mud if the
tide is out.
Tracy Templeton told the police she and JJ weren't
in the reserve, just walking along the road beside
it, when she heard a noise and looked up to see a
man with a dirty hat jump out at them. Before Tracy
knew what was happening he had hold of her friend.
Whether the guy was targeting Jenny Jones or he
simply grabbed the nearer girl is impossible to say.
Certainly Jenny was the smaller and by disposition
shyer. To a predator lying in wait, Jenny Jones would
have looked the easier of the two to bring down.
Tracy reported that the man at first grabbed Jenny
by the arm but quickly changed his grip so that Jenny's
back was against his chest and his left arm was across
her throat. He wrapped his free arm around Jenny's
waist and started to drag her backwards through the
gap in the bushes. He must have been strong because
he managed to lift her right off the ground, although
he was later described as 'skinny, like a big boy'. Tracy
said her friend was kicking like a non-swimmer who
had got out of her depth.
The guy could have been any age from sixteen
to seventy, Tracy admitted. She told the police that
his hat had a wide brim and was pulled down low
over his face. She got the impression that
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