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happen every night. I tell myself it isn’t possible, and the woman replaces the girl on the porch.
    She also sits down, like the girl. She’s got her nightie on again, torn, and she has her head in her hands. One of her breasts is prominent in the moonlight. I can see the nipple facing down, dejected and hurt. At one point, she holds her hands out, forming a cup. It’s like she’s holding her heart there. It’s bleeding down her arms.
    I almost walk over, but instinct stops me.
    You know what to do .
    A voice inside me has whispered, and I hear it. It keeps me from going to her. This isn’t what I have to do. I’m not here to comfort this woman. I can comfort her till the cows come home. That won’t stop it happening tomorrow night and the night after.
    It’s him I have to take care of.
    It’s him I have to face.
    All the same, she cries on the front porch, and I wish I could go over there and hold her. I wish I could rescue her and hold her in my arms.
    How do people live like this?
    How do they survive?
    And maybe that’s why I’m here.
    What if they can’t anymore?

 

    I’m driving my cab, thinking, It has to get better than this—my first message and it’s a bloody rape case . To top it all off, the bloke I have to take care of’s built like a brick shithouse. He’s a unit if ever I’ve seen one.
    I tell no one. No friends. No authorities. Something beyond all that needs to be done. Unfortunately, it’s me who’s been chosen to do it.
    Audrey asks about it when we’re having lunch in the city, but I tell her she doesn’t want to know.
    She gives me that concerned look I love and says, “Just be careful, Ed, okay?”
    I agree with her and we’re back in our cabs.
    All day, I can’t help thinking about it. I also dread the other two addresses, although part of me explains that they can’t be any worse than the first one.
    I go there every night as, gradually, the moon goes through its cycle. Sometimes it doesn’t happen. Sometimes he comes home and there’s no violence. On those nights, the silence of the street is swollen. It’s scared and slippery as I wait for something to happen.
    Anervous moment arrives one afternoon when I go shopping. I’m walking along the dog food section when a woman walks past me with a little girl sitting in the trolley.
    “Angelina,” she says. “Don’t touch that.”
    The voice is mild but unmistakable. It’s the voice that calls to the night for help when she’s slumped down on the bed, being raped by a drunk with a libido like Kilimanjaro. It’s the voice of the woman who quietly sobs on her front porch in the silent, uncaring night.
    For a split second, the girl and I lock eyes.
    She’s blond with green eyes and beautiful. The mother’s the same, only tiredness has worn down her face.
    I follow them awhile, and once, when the mother’s crouched down looking at packet soups, I see her fall silently to pieces. She crouches there, dying to fall to her knees but not allowing herself.
    When she stands back up, I’m there.
    I’m there and we stare and I say, “You okay?”
    She nods and lies.
    “I’m okay.”
    I have to do something soon.

 

    At this point, you can probably tell what I’ve decided to do about the whole Edgar Street situation. Or at least you’ll know if you’re anything like me.
    Cowardly.
    Meek.
    Positively weak.
    Of course, in my infinite wisdom, I’m choosing to leave it for a while. You never know, Ed. It might just work itself out .
    Now, I know that’s pathetic in just about its purest form, but there’s no way I can deal with this kind of thing so early. I need experience with this. I need a few wins under my belt before I can test myself against the rapist built like Tyson.
    I pull out the card again one night as I drink coffee with the Doorman. I gave him some Blend 43 the previous night and he was quite taken by it.
    At first, he wouldn’t touch it.
    He looked at me. He looked at his bowl.
    Back and forth.
    It